


The Arrangement

by Sed



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Abduction, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Anticipation, Arranged Marriage, Begging, Break Up, Clothing Porn, Cultural Differences, Denial, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, First Time, Gift Giving, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Mutual Pining, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prison, Regret, Rimming, Self-Doubt, Semi-Public Sex, Situational Humiliation, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Virginity, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism, Wordcount: Over 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-14 09:09:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 120,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Surviving the assault on the Broken Shore and the war against the Legion, Varian Wrynn is faced with the task of maintaining peace with the Horde—now led by Warchief Varok Saurfang following the death of Vol'jin. Both leaders are tired of war, and have come together to find a solution that may last longer than previous efforts have achieved.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting off to the side for a while now, but since I'm not sure if/when I'll continue with the Across Enemy Lines series, it seemed like a decent time to post the first part. Please note that this is just the prologue. Future chapters will be much longer.
> 
> It's also fair to mention that I'm aiming for a 100k slow burn. This story will be _long_. Tags will be added as necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
Art by littlegumshoe

* * *

“You’re joking.” Varian Wrynn jerked back in his chair. “You’re serious?” His mouth hung open as he seemed to struggle to find the words he wanted. Finally he belted out, “Of course not!”

“Do not rush to answer, Your Majesty,” Saurfang cautioned. “This is a reasonable offer.”

Varian scoffed. “Reasonable? You’re talking about _marrying my son!_ The heir to my kingdom, my blood, my—my son, Saurfang!” He nearly swept his wineglass from the wooden table. “There is nothing reasonable about that!”

“Is that so? You and I may be good men, Varian Wrynn—”

“A good man doesn’t ask what you’re asking.”

“—but we are no fools,” Saurfang finished, unbothered by the king’s fury. “And we are not the only ones with power in this world. Yes, we may strike a tentative peace today, and it may last for a time. But sooner or later—sooner, if some have their way—it will be broken. Too much divides us. Too much misunderstanding, suspicion, and fear. There is little common ground.” He shook his head slowly. “No bond we may look to when those differences strain our patience.”

His words seemed to have struck a chord, only not quite how Saurfang had intended. “So I’ll marry one of your people,” Varian said, pointedly adding, “you _can’t_ have my son.”

Saurfang crossed his arms. Stubbornness was not a trait exclusive to the Alliance. “You will, hm?” he asked. “Who will you have, then? Sylvanas Windrunner?” He laughed at the look of horror that twisted the king’s scarred face. “I didn’t think so. And I’m certain Sylvanas herself would object, strenuously, and likely at the point of a blade. Perhaps someone more accommodating, then? Baine Bloodhoof? I don’t imagine he would be amenable to leaving Thunder Bluff, but you may find that Mulgore suits you well. It’s quite beautiful there.”

“You know I cannot leave Stormwind. I cannot turn my back on the Alliance, not even for peace.”

“I would wager the other leaders feel the same about their own homes and people,” Saurfang agreed. “But you, and _you alone_, have an heir of age. A son who will one day inherit your kingdom.”

Varian’s look was poisonous. Like a trapped animal willing to chew off its own limb to escape death. “And just how is he supposed to do that, to govern Stormwind and the Alliance, from Orgrimmar?” He slammed his fist on the table, causing the wine in his glass to jump and slosh across the worn wood. “Make some sense, man! What you’re proposing robs me of my heir and my family. It robs the Alliance of a leader, and my people of their future king.”

Saurfang had been anticipating this very objection, and he was well prepared to answer it. “I am not suggesting that your boy remain in Orgrimmar his entire life.” He leaned back in his own chair, at ease; negotiation was as much a matter of seeing as it was hearing, and he needed to project strength, stability. Varian’s eyes were upon him, and they were as sharp as the steel grey of his sword. “It may have escaped your notice,” he said, “but I am not a young man. My time will come. When it does, Anduin Wrynn will be in the unique position of straddling two very different parts of this world.”

“Is that all he’ll be straddling, Warchief?” Varian all but spat. “You expect me to give you my son so that you can bed him, and you want me to believe it’s for the greater good?”

The swiftness and rancor in the king’s accusation left Saurfang grasping for an answer before he lost the upper hand—what he had of it. “I have no interest in your son. If this were a matter of desire I wouldn’t have chosen a mate with whom I have nothing in common, and no possibility of producing offspring,” he explained.

Varian smirked as though he’d caught Saurfang a lie. “I thought the Horde didn’t pass from father to son,” he said.

The arrogance scraped at Saurfang’s nerves. “It _doesn’t_. Your untested whelp may one day rule in your place, but the Horde will select its strongest when I am gone. And, if I have done my duty, its wisest.”

“So,” Varian laughed rudely, “what you’re really after is a pawn. A hostage, to ensure we won’t betray you.”

It took every ounce of will he possessed to keep from rising in his chair to lean across the table and loom over the human king. If Varian had been an orc, he might have. “I am not a beast,” he growled, “no matter what you may think of me when you look upon my face and fangs. Your boy will be free to come and go as he pleases. He will be provided for in all the same ways he is accustomed to now, and he will be safe. No member of the Horde will harm him once we are mated.”

Now Varian growled. “Stop saying _mated_,” he snapped. “If you want me to think of you as better than animals, act like it.”

“Would you prefer I spoke of _marrying_ your son?”

That left the king momentarily speechless. He flattened his lips, and then said, “No.” After a beat he added, “He’ll need an heir himself, you know. And unless I am wildly mistaken about orcs, _you_ cannot provide that.”

Saurfang opened his arms and shrugged. “Perhaps he will find one for himself in the Horde. He will have ample time to get to know its people—and to let them get to know him. That is the point of this,” he said, stressing the words so that they might penetrate even Varian Wrynn’s famously implacable temper. “Even you must acknowledge that your son is an exception among your kind. As an ambassador of your people, of your Alliance, he will prove to the races of the Horde that there are humans who can be trusted, and who in turn trust them.” Anduin Wrynn had already befriended the high chieftain of the tauren and impressed many of the pandaren. He had been a prodigious diplomat from a young age, it seemed. Saurfang had complete confidence in the boy’s ability to sway the other Horde leaders with his earnestness and open mind. With one notable exception, perhaps. “The others will come more easily, then,” he added.

Varian took some time to consider the matter. For the first time in many years, Saurfang found himself anxiously awaiting the outcome of something other than a battle. He kept his eyes fixed upon the king’s furrowed brow, watching as his mind worked its way through the twists and turns of the maze that lay before him. At last he looked up, and though his jaw twitched and his armored fingers clenched into fists, he gave a quick nod. “Two conditions,” he said. “Should anything happen to me, for any reason, Anduin will return to Stormwind immediately. Even—” he said, speaking over Saurfang’s attempt to reassure him of his earlier offer, “if my death should mean war between the Alliance and the Horde. You will give me your word on this, Warchief.”

He held himself deadly still, and Saurfang knew he was expecting that his condition would be met with refusal. It almost delighted the orc to prove the king wrong. “Of course. You have my word that your boy will be seen safely and swiftly back to Alliance lands should any ill befall you.”

The human’s armored shoulders relaxed somewhat, and the lines of his face eased. “Thank you,” he said, and Saurfang was certain it had been sincere.

“Your other condition?”

Varian nodded gravely. “Anduin himself must agree. I will not sell my son like chattel. Not even for peace.”

“I would expect nothing less, Your Majesty,” Saurfang said. The two men traded looks, and Saurfang saw there the deep love of a father for his son. He had tremendous respect for it, and for what it took for a man like Varian Wrynn to accept such an offer, even conditionally.

“I will discuss the matter with him when I return to Stormwind this evening. You may expect our answer in a few days’ time.” He started to rise from his chair, but stopped halfway to standing. His back was still bent and his hands were on the table, the knuckles curled and fingers clenched. “I hope you realize that Anduin is not simply a royal heir,” he said. He lifted his eyes again to meet Saurfang’s. “He is a bright, compassionate, and spirited young man. Should he agree to become your… _mate—_” he ground out the word, “—you will not simply be gaining an unassuming and agreeable companion. He will expect to act as your partner, I can guarantee it. He will not be happy simply standing in your shadow.”

Saurfang was tempted to smile, but he knew Varian was being completely honest, and it was not meant to be a humorous assessment of his son. He inclined his head. “I would welcome his counsel,” he said. Privately he was certain Varian had overestimated the boy’s inclination to involve himself in Horde affairs. Perhaps at the outset, when the novelty of it all was still enough to retain his attention, but a young man given the freedom to seek experiences none of his peers could perhaps imagine? It was unlikely he would remain within Grommash Hold for long before he grew bored of the day-to-day business of overseeing the Horde.

And that was _if_ he agreed at all. With the decision left in the boy’s hands, it was anyone’s guess what might come of the proposal. Being mated to a scarred and sullen old orc? Even with no expectations, it was not a fate Saurfang could imagine a young man might choose for himself. Even one so bright, compassionate, and spirited as Anduin Wrynn.


	2. First Impressions

He had seen Wrynn’s boy once before, in Pandaria. They had all gathered together, Horde and Alliance alike, in the Temple of the White Tiger. The prince had been called upon to testify during the trial of Garrosh Hellscream as a witness to the former warchief’s atrocities. Although he had been forced to recall the encounter that had nearly ended in his death, he had, nevertheless, remained as graceful and self-assured as one would expect of a young man trained to lead from birth. Even so, Saurfang had not given the prince a great deal of thought at the time, so focused was he on the trial.

Now, as he watched Anduin Wrynn descend the ramp from the deck of the _Wind’s Redemption_, he realized that his impressions of the young human had not allowed for what changes the years might make. The prince was no longer the same lanky youth he had last beheld in Kun-Lai; he had grown into a man, and while his body remained lean, the signs of well-trimmed muscle lay beneath his clothing, not rangy limbs and a scrawny chest. His golden hair was pulled back, though some had come loose in the wind. It hung about his face in soft, golden locks. The light caught his blue eyes and Saurfang felt his mouth go dry.

He had not anticipated _this_.

“Warchief!” the prince called out, waving his hand high in greeting. Beside him his father shot a warning look in Saurfang’s direction.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” Saurfang said once they had reached the bottom of the ramp. He turned to Varian. “Your Majesty.” He rapped a hand against his chest and gave the king a courteous bow befitting his station. Varian responded in kind, and Anduin followed suit.

“I think, under the circumstances, you could just call me Anduin.” It was said with a stunning smile, and Saurfang had no doubt the offer was genuine.

He hesitated, and then said, “This way,” before turning to lead the Alliance party up the dock.

Anduin’s disappointment was almost a tangible force at his back as they walked, but Saurfang staunchly ignored it. He had to; this was an arrangement made to benefit the Horde, to foster peace. _Nothing_ more.

  
A feast—the first of several such celebrations—had been prepared to honor the king and his son, and to celebrate the bonding of the warchief to the latter. Dining with the humans had been as strange as Saurfang thought it might be, perhaps even more so. He had not regretted when the evening came to a close earlier than usual. The guests had filtered out one by one, returning to their homes and, in the case of the Alliance, back to their ship. Some, like Baine Bloodhoof, lingered a while, eager to speak with the prince and his father. But in time they found themselves alone, sitting around the long table that had been placed in Grommash Hold for the occasion. Horde and Alliance soldiers stood guard outside, but no one else dared to disturb the warchief and his honored guests.

Saurfang envied those who had been permitted to leave.

“Warchief Saurfang,” Anduin began, still unfailingly polite and evidently bristling with energy despite the hour. “I had hoped we might have the opportunity to speak with one another prior to my arrival in Orgrimmar. I regret that circumstances made that impossible.” He regarded Saurfang with a strange look; one that the orc had difficulty decoding in the flickering light of the fires that surrounded them. “The night is still young, perhaps we might take some time to get to know one another. After all, we will be spending a great deal of time together.”

“More than enough time to become well acquainted,” Varian said. His tone was easy, intended for Anduin, but his gaze was hard and fell sharply upon Saurfang. The warning there was quite clear: _But not _too_ well acquainted, orc_.

Only hours ago Saurfang might have laughed at the king’s attempts to deter his interest. Now his pulse quickened, and his skin grew hot under the human’s intense stare. It was as though he’d been caught stealing something precious. He struggled to find the right words to both alleviate the king’s paranoia and reassure Anduin of—

Of what? His _affections?_

Perhaps this arrangement had not been such a wise maneuver after all. Saurfang cleared his throat and said, “You are right, Your Majesty,” to Varian. “If you would like, Prince Anduin, tomorrow morning I will accompany you—and your father—on a tour of Orgrimmar.” With Varian as a buffer between them, he reasoned, making unintentional overtures toward the prince was far less likely. Although the human king chafed at him like wet leather, he trusted himself not to say something foolish while Varian was present. Peace was simply too important to risk. For anything.

Anduin was visibly disappointed, but Varian seemed to relax. He gave Saurfang a barely perceptible nod, signaling his approval, and at last the evening staggered back to balance.

“When will our marriage ceremony take place?” Anduin asked, promptly throwing everything off again with the ease of a bull kodo tossing its rider.

Saurfang, cup halfway to his lips, froze. His eyes locked with Varian’s across the table. There was a promise of death in those dark blue depths. “The… day after tomorrow,” he answered. He straightened up and added, “It will be a simple and private matter.”

“It’s probably fortunate we chose to forego a human ceremony.” Anduin chuckled at some joke only he was aware of, and added, “I imagine I would look rather silly in a wedding gown.”

“Anduin,” Varian said sternly.

“I was only—”

“Have you both eaten enough?” Saurfang asked, gracelessly breaking into the brewing disagreement between father and son. He looked back and forth between the two of them. “Would you like something different?” The evening was quickly spiraling out of control, and he didn’t have the first clue how to salvage it, and avoid either offending Anduin, or inciting a war with Varian. He distantly considered calling for someone to douse some of the braziers. He was sweating. Profusely.

Varian frowned, and for just a moment he returned his attention to the meal that had been placed before him earlier in the evening. The feast had boasted all of the delicacies the lands of Durotar, Mulgore, and Quel’Thalas could provide. Anduin, who had shown a great deal of interest in his new home from the moment he arrived, had eaten everything on his plate, while Varian had only picked at his food—and rather grudgingly, at that. Saurfang, anxious in a way he hadn’t felt for some time, had barely eaten at all.

“Your hospitality has been more than gracious, Warchief,” Varian said. “But I think it’s time my son and I retire to our ship. It may be somewhat early,” he added, sparing a glance at Anduin, who appeared poised to object, “but we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“I’d assumed we would be staying here,” Anduin said.

“You were incorrect.”

Saurfang knew better than to come between a father and son—more so than he already had, at any rate—and so he wisely kept his mouth shut. Rooms within the hold had indeed been prepared for both the king and the prince, but he could not say that learning Varian intended to return to the _Wind’s Redemption_ hadn’t come as a relief. A part of him, very small, and nearly smothered beneath the uncomfortable desire that was steadily growing with each passing moment, hoped that they would simply leave. It might sabotage all efforts at securing peace between the Horde and the Alliance, but it would make _his_ life much simpler. Selfishly, he thought he might be willing to sacrifice one for the other.

But Anduin turned to him then, the same unguarded disappointment as before plain on his damnably beautiful face. “Some other night, Warchief,” he said quietly, and regretfully.

Saurfang almost objected on his behalf then. He stopped himself at the last second, and gave the prince a courteous tip of his head from where he was seated. He stood and thumped his fist against his chest. “I wish you both a restful evening.”

“And you as well, Warchief,” Anduin said. “Until tomorrow.”

Varian, once more glaring daggers at Saurfang, almost sneered as he said, “Let’s go, Anduin.” He inclined his head, narrowing his eyes even further. “Goodnight, Warchief Saurfang.”

When they had gone, and the Alliance honor guard with them, Saurfang nearly collapsed in his seat. He buried his face in the palm of his hand. By the spirits, what had he _done?_

  
The morning saw a slow start for both Saurfang and the Alliance visitors. The sun was well on the way to its peak when Varian and Anduin Wrynn finally appeared in Grommash Hold. Anduin was no longer clad in his princely coat and sash, but wearing only a loose, light-colored cloth shirt and breeches, with soft leather boots turned down at the top. He seemed prepared for a day in the heat of Durotar, and Saurfang was sorry to disappoint him yet again.

“It seems there has been an attack on a merchant caravan from Azshara,” he explained after they had exchanged all the proper greetings. “I was just on my way to see what progress has been made tracking down the culprits. If you wish, I can assign one of the Kor’kron to show you around the city in my stead.”

Before Varian could answer, no doubt to agree that continuing with the tour was best, Anduin jumped in. “We could accompany you to Azshara,” he said, staunchly avoiding meeting Varian’s very critical eye. “After all, if I am to assist you with Horde affairs, I should get to know its people in every capacity.” When neither ruler answered immediately, he added, “It may also make a positive impression on those merchants, who will then spread word of the Alliance king and his son, who helped the warchief track down their attackers.”

It seemed the rumors of Anduin Wrynn’s savvy were not exaggerated. Saurfang could find no fault in his proposal. He glanced at Varian, who seemed to be over the very same barrel. The king sighed heavily, and gestured for Saurfang to lead the way out of the hold.

Saurfang thought perhaps he shouldn’t feel so proud of the prince, or excited by the thought of his company during this task, but he was. In fact, it was becoming harder to deny his interest with every moment that he spent in Anduin’s company.

He stepped out of the hold, into the sun, and a sudden thought nearly made him stumble. Tomorrow he would be mated to Anduin Wrynn. They would be, at least in human terms, married. Varian would leave the day after that, and Saurfang would be alone with the prince. Alone with his new partner, to whom he was undeniably attracted despite his best efforts. And whose rooms within the hold lay right next to his own. It had been a matter of practicality when planning where to house the prince; Anduin was simply safest nearer to the warchief, and within the hold, where the Kor’kron could keep watch over both. Now it seemed a disastrous oversight.

Direwolves were furnished for their use, and Anduin climbed up onto his with the ease of an orc who had been riding the beasts since childhood. Saurfang didn’t think to hide his shock, and Anduin seemed delighted by it. “I’ve ridden elekks, sabers, and rams, Warchief,” he explained in near-perfect Orcish, “I hope you don’t think I can’t handle riding something with a little more personality.” His smile was downright mischievous, and Saurfang was left too stunned to speak. Surely he didn’t realize…

But he was saved by Varian quite literally inserting himself into the space between them. “Are we riding or not?” he demanded, fighting to control the beast beneath him. “Let’s get this over with.”

Art by littlegumshoe

  
The merchant caravan had been carrying metal scrap and other semi-valuable goods to Orgrimmar from Bilgewater Harbor. The ambush, carried out by cloaked figures the goblins were unable to identify, had happened so swiftly that the guards were unable to unsheath their own weapons in time. Three lay dead around the foremost wagon, now half-empty, and another two were wounded. One appeared on the verge of death.

Anduin dismounted and ran ahead before Saurfang could stop him. He flew past the grunts surrounding the wagon, leaving them scrambling to catch up, and rushed to the side of the dying goblin. Saurfang had only just shouted the order for the others to stay where they were when a brilliant flash of light lit the road around them. He was no stranger to healing magic, but the speed and intensity of it caught him off guard, and left him awed by the exceptional skill Anduin showed in a discipline he had seen others take near a lifetime to master. The goblin was pulled from the brink of death by Anduin’s quick action, and he took the prince’s hand in his, shaking it profusely, thanking him over and over for his assistance. Anduin healed the other goblin and then checked the three corpses for any lingering signs of life. Saurfang watched, transfixed by the sadness that seemed to wash over him as he confirmed that all three were well beyond help.

When the prince returned to his direwolf he was far more somber than he had been on the ride out from the city. “I apologize if I overstepped, Warchief,” he said quietly.

“Not at all.” Saurfang looked to Varian, who had put a hand on his son’s shoulder. He seemed well acquainted with Anduin’s reverence for life, and his powerful connection to the Light. It was not something Saurfang himself had been aware of prior to that moment, but he was strangely moved to see it. To the grunts, he said, “Place the dead in the wagon, and return to Orgrimmar with the others. We will scout the area for those responsible.”

One of the grunts started to object. His eyes darted to Anduin and Varian. “But—”

“Do you question your warchief?” Saurfang snapped. “Or the intentions of our honored guests?”

“No, of course not!” the grunt rushed to explain. “I swear it! My apologies, Warchief.” He hesitated, then turned to Varian. “Please forgive any offense I’ve caused, Your Majesty.”

Saurfang turned back to the two humans. Anduin seemed to have perked up somewhat, but his eyes remained distant, as though something else troubled him. It pulled at a feeling in Saurfang that he couldn’t immediately identify, and wasn’t certain he wished to examine too closely. “Your Majesty,” he said, drawing Varian’s attention away from the grunt, who gladly retreated from the king’s stern gaze. “If you would prefer to return with the wagon—”

“We’re already here, Saurfang,” Varian said tersely. He pulled his direwolf’s reins, turning the beast toward the west, where the grass had been disturbed by signs of the attackers’ passing. “Let’s find whoever was responsible for this.” An unspoken _and get back to the city_ hung in the silence that followed, and Saurfang noted it. Varian was, against his own better judgment, making an attempt at civility. That was something, at least. Especially considering the circumstances.

Anduin’s wolf loped up alongside Saurfang’s, so close their legs nearly brushed. Varian rode several paces ahead, and for the first time since the humans’ arrival, Saurfang and his intended mate were allowed some measure of privacy, and a chance to speak. “May I call you Varok?” Anduin asked.

Saurfang frowned. The thought was tempting. _Too_ tempting, in fact. “Perhaps it would be best if we observe your own formalities, for now,” he said.

“We are to be married tomorrow,” Anduin pointed out. “I can’t imagine anything _less_ formal than the bonding of two people.” He looked down and smiled shyly. “Well, perhaps a few things.”

If he’d been on foot, Saurfang would have frozen in place. As it was, his direwolf kept walking, mindlessly following Varian’s. “Perhaps… after,” he said, choosing his words carefully. He did not wish to make a promise he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—keep. Especially in light of his own inappropriate interest, which he still struggled to deny. “We can revisit the subject once it is done. You may find you’ve changed your mind by that time.” The adventure of joining himself to the warchief of the Horde might seem exciting now, but the reality could prove quite different once the deed was complete. It would not do to deny him that sense of separation if he decided later that he wished to maintain it, instead.

“I doubt I’ll change my mind about calling my husband by his given name,” Anduin remarked only somewhat sourly. “I imagine it may prove awkward not to, in fact. Especially at certain times.”

Saurfang swallowed. His throat was unusually dry, but he had neglected to bring a waterskin along in his saddlebag. He had been too distracted to even think of such mundane matters. Rather than answering, he only hummed a vague sound, neither agreeing with the prince nor denying his request. It seemed easiest.

_Husband_. He liked that word more than he cared to admit, even to himself. He liked it precisely because of what it implied, though he had no right to even think of such a grievous violation of Varian Wrynn’s trust. Anduin was an adult, a grown man able to think for himself and make his own choices. After all, it had been his decision to accept Saurfang’s offer and come to Orgrimmar. But regardless of whatever else he was, he was also the king’s beloved son.

Not for the first time, Saurfang questioned his own wisdom, his haste. He had been so blinded by the prospect of peace following the defeat of the Burning Legion that he had not considered all the ways in which his own weakness might prove to be the Horde’s ultimate undoing.

There was simply nothing else for it, he decided. He had to resist the temptation to become too close, too familiar, with Anduin Wrynn.

  
In the end their search for those responsible for the caravan attack had taken most of the day, and no small amount of bickering between Saurfang and the king of Stormwind. A host of soldiers were gathered by the gates, anxiously awaiting their arrival when they returned with six prisoners in tow. Five of those who walked behind them, their wrists bound by a length of rope and tied to Saurfang’s saddle, were human. One, a goblin, claimed allegiance to no cartel, and no threat from the warchief of the Horde had revealed a crack in his story.

One of the humans—a Gilnean, by his accent—had proved more difficult to manage than the others. He had complained loudly of their treatment, speaking only in Common, as though perhaps Saurfang might not be able to understand him. The warchief had kept silent throughout the journey back. Let the human hang himself with his own words.

The soldiers at the gates received them, relief plain on their faces. There were many in Orgrimmar, and indeed throughout the Horde, who were not so certain of this new peace as Saurfang and Varian seemed to be.

He handed the end of the rope to one of the closest grunts and dismounted from his wolf. Varian and Anduin were already on their feet, and the wolves were led away. Anduin gave his a kindly pat as it passed.

It was time for Saurfang to enact the plan he had been devising since they discovered the band of cutthroats in their makeshift camp. Since they learned that nearly all were Alliance citizens. “Your Majesty,” he said, speaking low so that only those closest could hear, “perhaps you would prefer these criminals answer to the Alliance for their misdeeds, rather than the Horde. As most are your people, I would be amenable to granting you their lives. A gesture of good faith.” He knew the six prisoners could hear him as well, and he did not care for their comfort, but some appeared to relax at his words. The Alliance _might_ simply imprison them, but the Horde would most certainly see them executed. Their chances were better with their own people. In granting Varian Wrynn the choice, Saurfang could avoid the potentially troubling event of human prisoners executed on Horde soil. Some would not like it, but he could not please everyone.

Varian regarded him with keen eyes, weighing the offer. For a moment Saurfang thought perhaps the king feared it was only the bait to a trap. But then he smiled, and shook his head. “No, Warchief,” he said. He spoke in Orcish, and raised his voice so that even the soldiers at the gate could hear. “Your people were wronged, and they deserve justice. I have no objection to seeing it served at your hands.”

“King Wrynn, please!” one of the prisoners cried. “They’ll kill us!”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you murdered innocent men.”

Saurfang was surprised, but did not let it show; he would have expected Varian to demand the lives of the humans if he hadn’t offered first. Now it was he who made the generous offer, and Saurfang who questioned its sincerity. He had no choice but to abide by the king’s decision, however. Insisting would only make fools of them both. “Take them,” he commanded. The grunt holding the end of the rope obeyed, and began to march all six into the city.

As they passed the two rulers and the prince, the Gilnean spat on the ground at Varian’s feet. “I’d expect nothing less from the sort of man who would sell his own son to an _orc,_” he sneered.

Beside them Anduin paled, and he appeared visibly upset by the cruel appraisal of his father by the Gilnean. Varian bared his teeth. “As if I place any value on the opinions of a killer,” he said darkly.

When they had gone, and the silence had begun to grow oppressive, Saurfang searched for a way to salvage what had, up to that moment, been a decent bit of progress between them. “I apologize—” he began, but Varian raised a hand and interrupted him.

“No need,” he said.

“Warchief.” Anduin cut through the tension with the soft sound of his voice, and Saurfang couldn’t help but give him his full and immediate attention. “What will happen to those men?”

“They’ll be imprisoned. Likely executed.” The stolen goods had been found in their camp, there was no doubt that they had been the ones to kill the goblins. All that really remained was to decide how and when they would die.

“Would you consider sparing their lives?”

The question took Saurfang by surprise. He stared down at the prince much longer than he would have liked. At last he found his voice and said, “Spare them? Your Highness, they’re murderers. We do not spare the lives of those who would take them from others. Not in the Horde.”

“Then,” Anduin hesitated. He licked his lips, and Saurfang felt his pulse jump. “Would you make me the same offer?”

“What?”

“Offer me the lives of those men, as you did my father.”

Varian stepped in then. He put a hand on Anduin’s shoulder. “Son.”

“Would you do it, Warchief?” Anduin prompted. His blue eyes were fixed upon Saurfang’s, staring up at him from beneath the golden fringe of his hair. He was so earnest that it was almost troubling. “Please?”

Saurfang had known that he would give in before he made the conscious decision to do so. Denying it was simply delaying the inevitable. He nodded once, and gestured for one of the guards. “Give your judgment, Prince Anduin. My men will obey.”

Anduin squared his shoulders, and Saurfang waited to see what choice his future mate would make. Would he spare them, and set them free? That might complicate matters more than offering their lives to Varian would have. His compassion at the site of the attack made Saurfang think that he was far more inclined towards mercy than not. That could prove to be a problem.

“They took the lives of others in an act of violence and greed, and so their own should be forfeit,” he said. “But not—” he added, raising his voice and interrupting the chatter that met his proclamation, “at the gallows, or beneath the blade of an axe. Put them to work. Make them pay for their crimes in sweat, to benefit the Horde. They will do more good that way than they might as corpses.” He turned back to Saurfang. “Do you find this agreeable, Warchief?”

Saurfang couldn’t hide his smirk. “Indeed, Your Highness. I do.” To the guard, he said, “See to it the prince’s command is carried out.”

Anduin’s answering smile was more radiant than the setting sun. Saurfang offered him a short bow, and Anduin left to follow the others inside. Varian and Saurfang stood together, watching the informal procession as it entered the city.

“Do you not execute the guilty in Stormwind?” he asked idly.

Varian grunted. He had a smile of his own, but its meaning was unreadable. “We do. Though I’d wager not nearly as often as you do, however.” He chuckled to himself, and added, “Rather, as often as you _did_.”

  
His armor had been polished to a high shine; the first time in decades he could recall seeing himself in the metal, rather than the nicks and scrapes and other signs of a lifetime spent at war. The red paint had been renewed, and the dents pounded out until the battered plate appeared almost new again.

For the second time in his life, Varok Saurfang was preparing to entwine his existence with that of another. He had not been nearly so nervous the first time. Then again, the fate of the Horde had not rested on the outcome then, as it did now. Defeating the Legion had cost both the Horde and the Alliance a great deal; men, ships, and resources. They would all take time and hard work to replace. While that most certainly would have delayed a war, it would not necessarily prevent one. Saurfang’s first choice had not been to take a mate, much less a human, but if doing so would secure what the Horde needed to survive the coming years, he would have bound himself to a murloc.

He pulled his tabard down over his chest and began securing the leather straps and armor that would rest atop it. His hair had been cleaned and neatly plaited that morning, and even the silver catches that held the braids in place were gleaming. If he narrowed his eyes enough he could almost believe he was a fresh recruit again, albeit one with a bit more wear than most.

As he had promised Anduin, the ceremony was a private affair, held high up on the cliffs that surrounded the city. With no one to interrupt the proceedings, and an unobstructed view of the grandeur of Orgrimmar, it was, surprisingly, rather peaceful.

Until Varian Wrynn arrived.

It was nothing he said that so drastically altered the mood of the small gathering, but the snarl that seemed permanently etched onto his stony face; the furious hunch of his shoulders, and the way his eyes flashed dangerously. It was as though he longed to abandon civility to some feral nature buried somewhere beneath the facade of a man. The few Horde who had come to witness the event gave him a wide berth, and avoided meeting his gaze. Even Baine seemed wary of the sullen king.

“Let’s get this over with,” Varian growled under his breath. It was not the first time he had made the same comment since his arrival, and Saurfang ignored it as he had each time before.

Varian took position near to, but somewhat back from, Saurfang and the shaman who had come to oversee the fulfillment of the rite. The formality of their orcish bonding, a ceremony normally lasting days and including a ritual hunt and yet further feasting, had been pared down to something much more expedient. Simplified for the sake of both the humans and Saurfang’s nerves.

He was only just beginning to relax when at last Anduin appeared. Varian stood straight, smiling despite his sour mood, and looked proudly upon his son. The prince was striding up the cliffside path in formal vestments far more splendid than what Saurfang had expected. His hair, once more tied back tightly, was adorned with an ornate silver circlet. In the center of the delicate metalwork lay a stately lion’s head. It was offset by cerulean jewels that sparkled in the morning sun, shining nearly as brightly as Anduin’s eyes.

The sight of him left Saurfang breathless.

“Are you well, _Warchief?_” he heard Varian snarl over his shoulder.

Saurfang snapped his mouth shut with an audible _click_, and turned back to the shaman. “You may begin,” he instructed. Anduin stepped up beside him. Though he was smiling, Saurfang could see a slight tremor in his slender form. “Prince Anduin?” he asked quietly.

“Just nerves,” Anduin answered with a slight wave of his hand. He favored Saurfang with a playful smirk. “It’s not every day I get married, you know.”

Saurfang couldn’t help but share in his humor; he understood only too well how the prince felt at that moment, and he sympathized. He wanted to say something kind, something that would put Anduin at ease, but he could still feel Varian’s eyes upon his back. Appearing too friendly would only make things worse for all of them. And so, instead of answering, Saurfang shuffled a step to the side, creating more space between himself and Anduin. From the corner of his eye he saw the prince frown.

_Better to disappoint him now,_ he thought as the shaman began to call upon the elements to bless their union.

Better to face the disappointment himself.


	3. Work Smarter, Not Harder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to clear up a few things before we begin this new chapter:
> 
> The first is that I like to play with perspectives, so each time we switch between Saurfang and Anduin keep in mind that we're only seeing what they each understand of a given situation. They may be wrong. They frequently will be, because fic.
> 
> Second, this is not a complex, extremely serious story like some of my others have been. Think Avengers fics around 2012 where they all live in the tower and have movie nights, go on missions together, and largely get along while they try to convince the main couple they're perfect for each other because they're too stupid to see it themselves. There might be a little intrigue, but for the most part it's just going to be fun and kind of frustrating (given that I'm aiming for 100k words). Along the way I'm going to subject them to some of my favorite tropes and pull out a few surprises. But no stress. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts (much).
> 
> That's it! Thank you as always for your patience, please enjoy. :)

Anduin sat at the foot of his bed—his new bed, in Orgrimmar—holding his crown in his hands.

He was married.

It was still strange to him, as though it hadn’t really happened. Marriage itself wasn’t something he had ever given much thought; he’d always assumed that, like many of the duties expected of him, it would simply happen when it was time. And it seemed it had done just that, only not at all in the way he expected. He supposed, in the back of his mind, that he had always believed it might be some lord’s daughter, or the heiress of an important ally. Never once had he thought his father would allow him to wed another man. Securing the future of the Wrynn line was simply too important, regardless of Anduin’s own preferences. He had almost resigned himself to it, in fact.

But this… Marrying the warchief of the Horde, who was _most definitely_ a man, changed things rather significantly. Just not necessarily in the ways Anduin had hoped.

He did not regret his decision, of course. What he had done had been for the Alliance and the Horde both. It was for Azeroth, and for her people, who would finally know the joy of peace after so long at war. That had been his only thought upon agreeing to the warchief’s proposal, and up until the moment he’d sailed into Bladefist Bay, it had remained true. Admittedly, he had not expected to find Varok Saurfang nearly so intriguing, so impressive. Anduin had expected that the orc, a legend among the Horde and Alliance alike, would be coarse, intimidating, and unfriendly. To his great surprise, he had instead found that the warchief was the exact opposite, and perhaps a bit more than even that, as fate would have it.

Thus, the only problem was Anduin himself.

He set the crown on the bed beside him and let out a long sigh. He had made quite an impression, alright. He’d been so relieved to find the warchief of the Horde was a much gentler man than he had expected, and rather charming, in fact, that he had gone on to make a complete fool of himself. Perhaps some of his enthusiasm could be excused as youthful exuberance, but since the ceremony he had been going over nearly every word he’d exchanged with the warchief so far, and it was not painting a pleasant picture.

Anduin buried his face in his hands and groaned. What a fool he’d been. He may as well have marched down the gangplank and thrown himself at Saurfang.

The warchief was simply… unexpected. And as Anduin had stood on the deck of the _Wind’s Redemption_ while the crew prepared to dock, his first glimpse of the man who was to be his mate had left him awed.

Now he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t been too hasty. Not that he wouldn’t have agreed regardless; peace between the Alliance and the Horde was simply too important to abandon on the whims of one person, even if he hadn’t been amenable to the idea. No, his only regret was not taking the time to learn about the man to whom he would be wedded, rather than his new home.

And what a strange new home it was.

Barring the lack of pristine stone walls, his room was very much like what he was accustomed to in Stormwind. A surprise, to be sure. There was a crackling hearth along the far wall; a bed, blankets and feather pillows; all the furniture he might possibly require; and, perhaps strangest of all, a door. None of the other rooms in the hold had doors. If he wished, Anduin could lock himself away in his rooms, and he had a feeling no one else had the key to enter. Saurfang seemed to have taken great pains to ensure that Anduin would feel as comfortable as possible in Orgrimmar. That his bed had no feet and the rough stone hearth was adorned with spikes for no apparent reason did not much change that he was more or less ensconced in familiarity.

Prompted by the thought, Anduin reached back, searching with his fingertips. Behind him, rolled up and tied with twine, was a blue and gold Alliance banner. His father had slipped it into his hands before departing for home—for Stormwind, he corrected. Orgrimmar was his home now. The Horde were his people, just as much as the Alliance. As such, he wondered if it would be appropriate to raise the banner, even in his own room.

Anduin’s other hand slipped into his pocket. Concealed there, where neither the warchief nor his father knew of it, was the hearthstone Jaina had gifted to him when he was a boy. It was now attuned to Stormwind, and Anduin couldn’t help but wonder if he would one day wish to change that again. A part of him hoped that might be so. Another part, wrapped in layers of uncertainty, nostalgia, and even fear, prayed it would not.

He set the banner beside the crown and fell back on the bed with a huff. Being married was strange. Not strange in the way he imagined it might be, but in a way he thought might have more to do with his spouse than himself. Saurfang had been entirely unavailable from practically the moment the _Wind’s Redemption_ pulled anchor for the Eastern Kingdoms. _Horde business,_ he’d claimed. Anduin had tried to explain that Horde business was his business now, but in light of the fact that he was currently sitting alone in Grommash Hold, his insistence seemed to have fallen on deaf ears.

Was it his behavior over the past three days that had soured the warchief on Anduin’s company? Even as he thought of it, Anduin groaned. His off-color comment about wearing a wedding gown came back to him, and he pulled a pillow down over his face.

He needed to make amends somehow. If he was going to fulfill his duty as the warchief’s mate, as one of the central figures of the Horde, he had a responsibility to maintain a relationship with Saurfang. Even if it wasn’t exactly the sort of relationship he’d hoped they might have. Although, to be fair, he wasn’t certain he knew exactly what that was. He only knew that Varok Saurfang fascinated him, intimidated him, and, currently, ignored him.

Well, something would definitely have to be done about that last part.

Anduin briefly considered extinguishing the fire, which was currently providing the only light in the room. It was late; he’d spent most of the day learning some of the more practical details of the Valley of Strength, where Grommash Hold was located. The layout of the hold itself was fairly straightforward, but the city had turned out to contain more twists and turns and suspiciously dark alleys than he had anticipated. It was much like Stormwind in that way. He found the similarities surprisingly comforting.

Despite Saurfang’s assurances that no one would dare to harm Anduin in Orgrimmar, the warchief had apparently assigned guards to shadow him throughout the city. Elves, strangely enough. He would have expected orcs, and the choice made him wonder if perhaps those promises to his father weren’t so firm, after all. It was also possible the warchief was simply being cautious. Either way, Anduin didn’t mention it, and he much mind; the blood elves who followed him throughout the city were discreet and unobtrusive. They did not speak to him, and he did not speak to them. Though he had distantly wondered if, as the warchief’s mate, he could dismiss them if he so chose. Send the clear message to all that he did not require protection in his own home. But that was a matter for another time, when he was certain he wouldn’t ever need to turn to them for directions back to the hold.

His only real complaint about Orgrimmar so far was that his quarters had no window. Not even a small slit in the rough iron and stone through which he could watch the night sky. He wondered if Saurfang might be willing to assign him different accommodations, and then he snorted at himself for the very thought. Here he was, married, and he was thinking about asking permission from his husband to change rooms. What a strange life he had come to live.

He was only just worrying over inadvertently offending Saurfang, leading him to believe that perhaps rooms next to the warchief’s were unacceptable to him, when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. There were few orcs in the hold who moved the way Saurfang did, so full of purpose and unconcerned with hiding it. He stood tall over the Kor’kron and most of the other orcs, and practically towered over Anduin. His body was built of thick, corded muscle, his chest and shoulders broad, and he moved as if he expected the space around him to simply accept that fact, and bend to accommodate his proportions. His presence demanded notice.

For some time Anduin lay there, considering that Saurfang seemed to expect that Anduin would respond to him in much the same way. He wondered if he wasn’t being unreasonable himself. After all, hadn’t he expected a coarse, brutish beast of a man?

And yet...

Anduin leapt from the bed and jogged to the door. He only froze when his hand reached the latch. What would he say? Would he apologize for his comments, for being so forward? Or would he simply ask to move somewhere with a view? Both seemed rather inappropriate, especially in light of the hour; according to the drums that had sounded throughout the city earlier, it was close to midnight.

He let go of the latch and let his hand fall to his side.

And then, on a whim, he reached out and pulled the door open anyway, stepping out into the corridor to confront his mate for reasons he had not yet decided.

The corridor was empty. Several of the torches along the wall were flickering madly in an unseen gust, and the thick hide that served as the door to Saurfang’s quarters swayed in the pounded steel frame. Anduin, unsure exactly what he was doing, crept quietly through the darkness. An insistent voice in the back of his mind told him that sneaking up on an orc, any orc, but especially Saurfang, was a very foolish endeavor.

Flickering light spilled out into the shadows of the corridor, cast by flames lit throughout the room. Through the gap in the hide, Anduin discovered that Saurfang’s quarters were not nearly so decorated as his own. An obvious bed of furs and thick cloth sat neatly on the floor, not far from a roaring fire. There were low tables about, most covered in maps, scrolls of indeterminate purpose, and—most surprisingly—bottles of wine and other spirits. It seemed the warchief enjoyed a drink now and then. Anduin tucked that knowledge away for another time.

There was no sign of the orc himself, and Anduin frowned. He might have been able to excuse his actions if he had been able to simply announce himself to Saurfang and step inside the room. Instead he was left more or less spying on the man’s private life. Though, he had learned more from a quick glance than he had in three whole days spent in the warchief’s company.

He was just about to turn around, tear his eyes away from the strangely cozy scene, when a sound from an adjacent room caught his attention. Just as Anduin did, Saurfang seemed to have a private bathing chamber in his quarters, and he emerged from it wearing absolutely nothing.

Anduin thought perhaps the air had been drawn from the corridor by some cruel shaman, but that could not account for the tightness in his throat, nor the way his heart beat wildly in his chest at the sight of the man standing before him. Saurfang was covered in front, carrying a cloth that hid what lay between his thick legs. His hair, loose and hanging about his shoulders and chest, was wet at the ends, but dry atop his head. Anduin was struck with a sudden rush of unbidden images of the warchief, bathing himself one long, thick limb at a time; drawing a wet cloth over his skin, across his battle scars; dumping the last of the water over his chest and letting it sluice over the hills and valleys of his body. Anduin licked his lips and moved as close as he dared to the thin sliver of light between the wall and the hide. Saurfang had turned away now, and Anduin bit back a groan.

Suddenly the orc went still. He turned, a growl in his throat, and Anduin threw himself backwards into the shadows of the empty corridor. He was certain at any moment a naked and furious Saurfang would come charging out of his quarters in search of whatever foolhardy spy had dared to breach his privacy. But it was only Anduin, his blood pounding in his ears, warring with other, far more impractical parts of him, struggling not to pant into the darkness.

When no sound came, and Anduin was certain it was safe to move, he slowly crept back to his door. With all the care he could manage, he shut the door silently and turned the key in the lock. Once inside, he fell back against the rough-hewn wood and buried his face in his hands. What was he _doing?_ Spying on the man? Peeping at him through cracks like some sort of deviant sneak? They were _married,_ for Light’s sake! A part of him almost thought he might have thrown aside the curtain and asked the orc to consummate their union right then and there, and it would have been more acceptable than what he’d done.

Anduin made a disgusted sound and stumbled blindly to his bed. He threw himself down on his side and continued berating himself in muttered epithets for several minutes. If being too forward with Saurfang had been embarrassing, what he’d just done was unforgivable. He could only pray that the warchief had not realized who it was lurking outside his door.

Still hiding his face from his own shame, Anduin rolled over onto his stomach, only to be confronted by the stiff evidence of his appreciation for the warchief’s… physique. He groaned again, but this time for an entirely different reason. His hips jerked almost of their own accord, and Anduin bit his lip. He didn’t want to feel so aroused by what he’d seen, it seemed wrong somehow, like a breach of trust. Evidently his treacherous body had other ideas, however; he ground his cock against the bed a second time, telling himself it was only the once, just to relieve some of the pressure. But then he did it again, and he knew he was a liar as well as a sneak.

His hand snaked down to take hold of himself, and he sighed into the bedding. A litany of furious questions, like _what are you doing?!_ and _why?!_ rolled through his mind, battering his libido with shame, but he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. He bucked into his hand, imagining what it would be like to stand before the warchief in that room, naked from bathing. How he might react to Anduin’s touch. A groan escaped him at the thought of Saurfang dropping the towel in his hands. How big his cock must be, how thick and heavy, and what it would feel like to touch him. Silken heat over hard steel. He stretched into the roll of his hips against the bed, bringing two fingers up to his mouth. The practical voice in his mind warning him of his wrongdoing had faded beneath the roar of his arousal that filled his mind like a torrent of molten need. He wanted to hold off, make it last, but the urge to give in to the pleasure and chase his climax was too great. With a surprised cry, blessedly muffled by the bed and his fingers, Anduin came into his own hand.

He went limp and sighed heavily into the blanket. The shame was back, louder than before and none too pleased to have been so carelessly brushed aside.

So. Talking to Saurfang, apologizing to him, was now out of the question. Anduin was certain he would never again be able to broach the topic without making an even greater fool of himself than he already had. And asking for new accommodations seemed, to him, like an admission of guilt; though he was certain Saurfang would have no idea what he had done, _he_ knew, and that was enough.

Anduin cleaned himself up and pulled the shirt from his body, tossing it to the floor in a heap. He kicked his way out of his pants and let them fall from the end of the bed. Sleep pulled him under as the fire crackled in the hearth, and his thoughts drifted like sparks in the flames. Something would need to be done about his so-called husband. Mate? He yawned. If he couldn’t even decide what to call the man, he had little chance of forging a connection with him.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would speak to Saurfang, and one way or another, something would change.

  
Saurfang was not in Grommash Hold the next morning, and the great round room where the skull of Mannoroth hung above the warchief’s throne was empty. Nor was he in Orgrimmar, according to the Kor’kron guards who waited outside. Anduin had been unable to pry his location from them, despite reminding them that he was the warchief’s mate, and he had eventually given up and gone back inside.

He waited three more days for Saurfang to return. When the warchief did come stomping back into the hold it was beneath the onslaught of a torrential downpour. The dubiously-named wet season had begun in northern Kalimdor, as Anduin had learned during his daily foray into the city, and the streets of Orgrimmar had turned into rivers. Durotar received relatively little rain annually, and the city was ill-equipped to handle anything more than a light shower. It showed in the mud that was caked across the floors of the hold each day from one end to the other, as though no one knew how to simply remove their shoes.

He could hear Saurfang as the orc made his way to the upper level of the hold, his heavy register carrying throughout the stone-and-metal walls that surrounded him. He was speaking to someone, growling orders in Orcish, but Anduin could only catch pieces of what he was saying.

“_See it done,_” he heard Saurfang bark at his unidentified and unfortunate companion, and Anduin realized he was at the last landing before the steps that would take him up to his quarters.

Anduin scrambled from the room and silently slipped through the torchlit corridor, past the hide that hung before Saurfang’s personal space. There he arranged himself, arms folded across his chest, and waited. In the silence he considered that perhaps he was taking things a bit too far, but then he recalled the humiliation of the Kor’kron ignoring his questions, and Saurfang’s disappearance, and he steeled himself.

When Saurfang appeared he was soaked through to the skin, muddy up to his knees, and fuming. He threw back the hide that blocked his doorway and froze mid-step. Water dripped from every inch of him, pooling on the floor at his feet. If Anduin hadn’t known a little something of the man’s personality, he might have thought he’d startled him. As it was, he felt a momentary spike of panic, which he quickly tamped down in favor of an entirely forced but stern glare.

“What are you doing in here?” Saurfang demanded angrily. His eyes widened a fraction, and he hastened to add, “Prince Anduin,” in a far gentler tone. Despite his last-second effort at civility, Anduin could still hear the affront in his voice.

“Looking for my mate, Warchief. As I have done for the past three days.”

“I have been busy, Your Highness.” Saurfang unstuck his feet from the floor and continued into the room, striding past Anduin and into the adjacent room as though there was nothing strange about the human prince standing in the middle of his quarters.

“So it would seem. I learned just yesterday that you were in Mulgore. Did it not strike you as prudent to inform me?” _Or take me with you?_ Anduin didn’t add.

“No.”

He gaped silently for a few seconds before demanding, “You do recall the terms upon which this marriage was negotiated, Warchief? I am here to assist you—”

“You are here,” Saurfang interrupted, reappearing in dry clothes, “to foster peace between the Horde and the Alliance.”

“And just how am I to do that with you in Thunder Bluff?” Anduin insisted.

“By providing an example of what my people are to expect from their new Alliance allies. Tell me, Prince Anduin,” he added, taking a seat on the floor behind one of the low tables, “how have you done that so far? I left you for three days, how have you used that time?”

“I—” In truth, he’d spent a great deal of it lingering in Grommash Hold. If not for the rain he might have investigated more of the city, but even without it he had been too angry with Saurfang to put on a false smile for the people. Something he had been made to do all of his life, and by rights should have been well accustomed to already, rain or shine. He wasn’t prepared to admit that, however. Distantly it occurred to him that their exchange was being quite skillfully manipulated to put him on the defensive, when he had come expecting answers for Saurfang’s actions. It seemed he had yet again underestimated his mate. Point to Saurfang.

On the floor, Saurfang braced a hand against his knee, leaning to the side ever so slightly. A smirk broadened his already large mouth. Such a simple gesture had no business making Anduin’s heart speed up the way it did. “I see,” he said, those two words loaded with far too much meaning.

“And is that all I am to do, then?” Anduin asked, still carefully maintaining an even tone despite the minor battle taking place in his own mind. _Focus on the task at hand,_ he admonished himself. There would be plenty of time for other things later. Possibly. Probably not. Although…

Anduin shook his head to clear it. He moved his hands to his hips and stood before the table, where he could look down on Saurfang. In his mind’s eye he saw himself as one of the kitchen maids in Stormwind Keep, chiding him as a small boy for sneaking sweets before dinner. “Smile for the people,” he continued, “make a good show of it? When you met with my father and asked for my hand, you insisted that my presence among the Horde would be critical to maintaining peace. I can’t imagine this is what you meant.”

Saurfang snorted, and Anduin could tell that he was quickly growing weary of their exchange. “You wish to do more than smile?” he asked, clearly displeased by the suggestion that Anduin had been left with nothing else in his absence. Anduin wondered if he had ever considered exactly _what_ his new mate might do in lieu of any meaningful duties. “Here.” He reached for a scroll and unrolled it, haphazardly tossing the curled paper to Anduin, who caught it easily and flattened it the rest of the way. “Explain to me how your presence in Thunder Bluff might have secured timber for the Horde, or meat for my people.”

Anduin scanned the ledger in his hands and frowned. “There is hardly anything in Mulgore to harvest, why go there for timber?” Mulgore was a valley of vast, windswept plains. It was beautiful, but had no forests to speak of. Certainly nothing that might fulfill the needs enumerated on the scroll he held. “Is this everything?” he asked, suspecting the answer would not be to his liking.

Saurfang patted a small pile of similar scrolls beside him. “Demands for lumber, hides, meat, and other goods in quantities we cannot currently provide. Your own people are in much the same position, as I understand it.”

Anduin couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at his—unfortunately correct—assumption. Horde intelligence wasn’t nearly so lax as Master Shaw’s SI:7 agents made it out to be, it seemed. “You didn’t bring me to Orgrimmar because you need goods from the Alliance.”

“I have no illusions that you could perform such a miracle, Highness,” Saurfang said. He smirked at something, and Anduin wondered what it was that he found so humorous. When he looked up again his expression was grim. “Yes, I told the king that I believed your presence would help to determine the fate of this current peace. But even you cannot make trees appear where there are none, or replenish game faster than it takes the beasts to breed. Some things are beyond even your prodigious skills.”

That much was true… but not necessarily beyond his reach. He himself could not provide the wood and game needed by the Horde, but he might know someone who could. Anduin straightened up, re-rolled the scroll, and handed it back to Saurfang. “You are right, Warchief. It seems my presence in Mulgore would have been unnecessary,” he conceded—he hoped not _too_ easily.

Saurfang grunted as he accepted the scroll, laying it out lengthwise atop the others. “I am glad you agree.” He paused. “Goodnight, Prince Anduin,” he muttered tersely, before turning back to the pile of missives that lay on the table before him. A clear dismissal, and one that was not to be ignored.

Anduin offered a half-bow and wished the warchief a good evening, his mind racing beneath the facade of calm.

Once back in his own quarters, he paced. He tapped his lower lip with one finger, mulling over his options, considering how best to go about his plans—schemes, really—without alerting his other half. It was unbecoming of a prince, perhaps; princes did not plot. But princes were also rarely thrust into circumstances such as these.

While Anduin had learned early that Saurfang was a kind and gentle man, he had come to find that he was also rather stubborn. Well, Anduin had been known to hold fast to his own convictions when circumstances called for it. And if anything did, the well being of the Horde, and all of Azeroth, was such an occasion.

He only needed the right opportunity, and a bit of time.

  
Opportunity came in the form of another impromptu disappearance by Saurfang less than a week later. Anduin had been playing his part, serving the role the warchief thought best suited him, despite his previous claims. During his wanderings he had come to know the matron of the local orphanage, and swiftly won the loyalty of the many children there with what turned out to be alarmingly little effort. It warmed his heart to see that the young of the Horde were so eager to welcome new friends. Even those who bore the faces of their one-time enemies.

As Anduin had learned from sources he was quickly coming to trust within Orgrimmar—merchants, mainly, as well as some of the more sympathetic and kindly soldiers; primarily older orc women, who seemed to find Saurfang’s intolerance of Anduin’s presence “_typical_”—the warchief had gone to the Undercity. Anduin suspected it had to do with the shortage of timber that was currently plaguing the Horde. He knew that Saurfang would find no relief for that need in Tirisfal, however; the Plague of Undeath had not fully infested the land as it had done in northern Lordaeron, but its residual effects had nonetheless made most of the resources in that land useless. Useless to any but the Forsaken, at any rate. He knew this because the Alliance had briefly considered an attempt to gain control of the region for the very same purpose, and rejected it for just that reason. His own father had referred to Tirisfal as “near enough to blighted,” and spit in disgust.

Yet he knew the warchief would want to investigate for himself regardless. It was admirable that he would even bother, given the reports he had undoubtedly received telling him in no uncertain terms that his efforts would be wasted. Anduin couldn’t help but like him a little more for it. And for providing Anduin with a means to enact his own plan to help the Horde—as well as improve things significantly himself, if all went as intended.

He was certain Saurfang would have traveled to the Eastern Kingdoms by portal, simply because the effort to do so by any other means was prohibitively complicated. As a result he was keenly aware that he did not have much time to waste. He gathered what he might need and left word of his intentions with the Kor’kron, who only eyed him with the same cool indifference as always. This little act of rebellion and subterfuge afforded him the opportunity to push two particular boundaries he had been eager to test as the warchief’s new mate: he summarily and _permanently_ dismissed his sin’dorei escorts, and left the city. Saurfang had assured his father that he would be free to come and go, and so Anduin had done just that. He’d gone. How it would be received once the warchief caught wind of it was a matter for later. He had a feeling Saurfang would have more pressing matters to attend by that time, anyhow.

Withdrawing Jaina’s hearthstone from his pocket, and sparing only a second to consider that he had not told the Kor’kron _how_ he would be traveling abroad from the city, he let himself be whisked away to his former homeland. It was only the first leg of his rather roundabout journey across Azeroth and back. One that would also take him to Darnassus, likely Azshara as well, and, if he was lucky, back home to Orgrimmar.

It would be a lie if he had said he didn’t find the whole ordeal rather exciting.

  
The Stormwind leg of his adventure had been mercifully short, and it was well before midday when Anduin found himself standing before the Temple of the Moon. He had barely been able to take in the full splendor of the elven city sprawling before him when Tyrande Whisperwind appeared. She walked with the grace of ten millennia, a gentle light upon the cascade of her aqua-colored hair. He had expected to be favored with a smile, as he had so often in the past, but Tyrande’s lips were set in a firm, flat line, and her brow was pinched with worry.

“Prince Anduin,” she called out, ascending the short stone steps to join him. “When my Sentinels informed me of your arrival, they said that you had come not as Stormwind’s crown prince, but as an ambassador of the Horde. I had heard whispers of your father’s bargain with the warchief. It seems they were true.” She did not sound pleased by the discovery.

“Lady Tyrande, I am honored that you took the time to see me,” Anduin said, bowing deeply. “I understand this visit is unannounced, and likely unwelcome as a result.”

“A visit from you is never unwelcome, child. Are you well? Have you fled Orgrimmar to seek shelter here?”

Anduin shook his head quickly. “Not at all,” he said, “quite the opposite, in fact. Your Sentinels spoke the truth: I am here not as a prince, but as the warchief’s mate.”

That did not seem to sit well with the high priestess, and she frowned. “I am afraid I do not understand,” she admitted uneasily.

“I know this is highly unusual.”

“Something of an understatement,” Tyrande said. “I confess that I do not see the merit in Varian’s decision to allow Saurfang to keep you as his hostage. Even if the warchief has shown you mercy, you cannot possibly thrive in such primitive conditions.”

“I am no hostage, I assure you. The choice to join with Saurfang was mine.” He didn’t bother to explain that Orgrimmar was not the inhospitable eyesore that the Alliance had been lead to believe. Tyrande would never believe him anyway, and she might even start to worry that he had somehow been brainwashed during his short time in the Horde capital. He waved aside her concerns and said, “But none of that is why I’ve come here today. I have a request to make, if you will hear it.”

Tyrande arched a long, dark brow. She crossed her arms. Ten thousand years had not dulled her sense for mischief, it seemed. “Go on.”

Anduin licked his lips. He realized too late that he should have accepted water when it was first offered by the priestesses. Shifting his balance from one foot to the other to stall for a few precious seconds, he finally gathered his courage and said, “You once struck a treaty with the Horde, during Thrall’s rule. One regarding logging and hunting rights in Ashenvale.”

“I recall it. And I recall with great clarity why those rights were rescinded.” Her silvery gaze narrowed dangerously, and Anduin was certain she knew where he was headed with his inquiry.

“I would like for you to consider restoring that treaty with Warchief Saurfang.”

Tyrande’s eyes flew wide, and she let her arms fall to her sides. It was the first time Anduin had ever seen her look anything less than utterly poised. “Why would I _ever_…?! Has that green wretch put you up to this?” She dropped the pretense of formality and her brow became creased with worry. “You may tell me if you need,” she insisted. “Are you here under duress? Speak the truth, now, do you require shelter from the Horde?”

“Tyrande—High Priestess,” Anduin quickly corrected, attempting to remain courteous as his task demanded. “Forgive me, but I am no child. And I am not here to seek refuge.”

The look Tyrande gave him reminded Anduin that, at least to her, he would always be little more than a naive youth. “As you say,” she said. “But what you ask of me is impossible, and I cannot fathom that you would do so without being so motivated. You must realize how this appears.”

Duly chagrined, Anduin nodded. “I do. Nevertheless, I am here on the warchief’s behalf. Only…” Now he needed to tell the truth, because he knew that if he did not, Tyrande would simply draw it from him some other way. “Saurfang doesn’t know I’m here,” he said. He tried to keep his voice from betraying his uncertainty, but from her expression he was sure he had failed.

“You’ve come to beg on behalf of the Horde, for a man who does not know you speak in his name.” She crossed her arms and huffed what may have been a laugh, if not for the frown still tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Bold of you, Highness. And not what I might have expected. Perhaps your father was not entirely remiss in allowing you to choose your own path, as you have. Even so,” she said, brushing aside the tangent with a wave of her elegant hand, “I cannot permit the Horde to trespass upon our lands again. An unprecedented show of good will was extended to them in light of the Scourge threat, but I will not make the same mistake again. The Horde cannot be trusted.”

“You say that to the warchief’s mate, High Priestess. Do you not trust me?”

“You are a kindhearted young man, Anduin Wrynn. One who has found himself very far from home. But you are not of the same vulgar stock as those brutes. Do not mistake yourself simply because you have been wed to one of their kind,” she insisted, adding, “and do not try my patience; I have entertained you thus far, but I will not be subjected to such lowly attempts at manipulation.”

“I apologize,” Anduin said, dipping his head in the shadow of a bow. “It was unbecoming of me. Yet I must ask again, won’t you reconsider? I accept your reasons for withdrawing permission, and I understand your mistrust even now. But surely, in light of all that’s happened, both here and on the Broken Isles, you must acknowledge that there _has_ been change. Perhaps the Horde of old could not be trusted, but didn’t we all—Horde _and_ Alliance—stand together against the Legion? You struck that first tentative truce because it was necessary to save all of Azeroth. Yet even with the Burning Legion bearing down upon them, the Horde did not come to you a second time. Isn’t it possible that _this_ warchief recognizes the mistakes of the past, and has learned from them?”

“If what you say is true, and the need is as dire as your pleas suggest, why has he not come to me now? Why am I speaking to his mate, and not the man himself?”

A fond smile crept onto Anduin’s face before he could stop it, and he let it flow into a knowing smirk. “Pride, High Priestess. The same pride as my father, who would be just as reluctant to ask for aid in Saurfang’s position. As nearly any leader who has been accustomed to providing for their people by any means necessary. Varok Saurfang is stubborn. I barely know the man, but I do know this: he will exhaust _every_ option before he admits defeat.” He held his hands out, his palms empty beneath the boughs of the World Tree. “I am simply trying to ease the burden for him, and help the cause of peace. As is my duty.” He knew Saurfang would never authorize action against the night elves, but that did not mean others would stand by while their people starved and went without warmth and shelter. That was what had happened with Garrosh, wasn’t it? At least, that had been the beginning. “I think you can at least appreciate that,” he added, aware that he was perhaps pushing his luck just a bit too far.

Tyrande watched him for what felt like ages. Her silvery gaze tracked every breath he took, every shift of his eyes and discomfited twitch, until finally Anduin could hardly bear it any longer. “I see,” she said at last, and Anduin knew she did not mean it in regards to his appeal. He felt his cheeks grow hot, and he broke the line of sight between them, turning to stare at some spot in the distance. It shamed him that he was so utterly transparent to her. “I would make such a concession, Prince Anduin, and perhaps even consider reinstating the previous treaty with Warchief Saurfang.”

Anduin’s eyes snapped back to Tyrande’s, and he made no attempt to hide his joy. “Thank you, High Priestess, truly—”

But Tyrande held up a hand, and the rest of the words died on Anduin’s tongue. He knew the look in her eye, and he had a feeling he understood what it might mean. Though he had come prepared for such a possibility, that not make dealing with it any easier.

“In that same spirit of compromise,” she began, the edge of each syllable sharpened by centuries of careful honing, “I will require a commensurate show of faith from the Horde. This time will be different, and you, mate of the warchief, will ensure that it is so.”

This was what he had hoped he might not have to wield in these negotiations. He had been almost certain he could convince Tyrande to try—if nothing else, she understood the burden of leadership and the compromises so often required to achieve peace. The rest he was… far less confident he could manage with diplomacy alone.

As he swallowed past the dry lump in his throat, Anduin nodded. “I can do that.”

“Tell me how.”

He took a deep breath and said, “Azshara.”

Tyrande stared him down, and Anduin could hear his heart hammering frantically within his chest. He began to worry when she did not immediately answer. “I could speak with Trade Prince Gallywix—” he started to explain, only to be interrupted again.

“Return Azshara to my people? That would be a feat even for the warchief himself, young prince. Goblins do not often relinquish that which they have gained.”

Anduin shook his head. “No,” he said honestly. “I cannot do that. But I believe I can convince the goblins that restoring the land would only benefit them. Sooner or later they will run out of ways to exploit the region, and when they do, it won’t be useful to anyone.”

Tyrande scoffed. “You would have to make its protection more profitable than its destruction.”

“I think I can.” At least, he thought he could make a decent argument for it, anyway. At the moment he didn’t have much else. “And if I am able to?”

Tyrande had crossed her arms over her chest and seemed to be examining Anduin for something, perhaps some sign of trickery. He almost sighed; he was the same as he had always been, new allegiances notwithstanding. Marriage had not suddenly rendered him unrecognizable.

“If you do this,” she said slowly, still eyeing him strangely, “I will reinstate the treaty.”

Ashenvale was a densely wooded land of lush growth and abundant game. Its resources would help fill the gaps in the Horde’s needs for years to come. All it would take was a little clever negotiation with a goblin who had worked his way up the ranks of wealth through treachery, manipulation, and a total disregard for decency.

“Then you may consider it done.”


	4. This Asshole Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like writing goblins. Also the chapter titles are largely for fun, and do not necessarily reflect my own opinions.

Saurfang returned to Orgrimmar in the evening, when the winds from the north had blanketed the city in a soothing layer of chill night air. He could see each breath billowing out before him as he made his way from the city gate to the doors of Grommash Hold. He was only just lifting his foot to step inside when a small, round shape came waddling out, carefully clinging to the open door. Saurfang stepped back as Jastor Gallywix took the first step with a hop.

“Oh, heya there, Warchief!” the squat goblin drawled, tipping his hat up in Saurfang’s direction and waving with his cane. He sounded half-drunk, which Saurfang thought wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, and hardly concerned him. But why he might have been drinking inside the hold was a matter that drew his interest.

“Gallywix,” he grunted. “What brings you to Orgrimmar?” The trade prince had a veritable palace in the hills of Azshara, filled with all the strange and often vulgar grandiosity that goblins found so appealing. He rarely ventured to Orgrimmar.

“Oh, well, ya know,” the goblin began, gesturing to and fro meaninglessly. “I found myself graced with an occasion to visit your fair city at the behest of your lovely, er… Well, bride ain’t right, is it? But in short, Warchief, I was invited for an evening repast by that charming young man, and I found myself unable to say no.” He tipped his cane against his temple and winked. “Quite a looker, ain’t he? Hell of a catch you got there, if you know what I mean.”

Gallywix had been to see Anduin? And he—had they…? He couldn’t stop himself from snarling as he said, “I don’t. Perhaps you should _tell me_.” The thought of being subjected to actual details was appalling, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. The fury that coursed through him was hot enough to draw wisps of steam from his skin in the cold air.

“Ah, too much to tell.” Gallywix swept his hand in front of his face, blissfully unaware of how close he was to meeting a violent end at the hands of an incensed orc. “The kid can fill you in.” He elbowed Saurfang’s knee and winked. “Or maybe the other way around, eh?” He barked a laugh and trundled on, while Saurfang stood frozen in place, rage etched into every inch of his being.

It wasn’t possible.

_Was it?_

His blood burned in his veins. He was overcome by the desire to stomp and roar and satisfy a sudden thirst for vengeance that startled even him. Anduin was _his!_ They were _mated!_ They had been bound together by ritual, and _no one_ would take what belonged to him.

He turned on his heel, prepared to confront the goblin who had foolishly dared to lay a hand on his mate—but stopped before he could even take a step.

All of the anger poured from him at once, like a hole poked in a waterskin. In that moment he realized the truth: Anduin _wasn’t_ his. Not really.

It was only a bond in name, and nothing more. Saurfang, in his efforts to reassure Varian of his good intentions, had pushed the prince away at every possible turn, even after the Alliance king and set sail for his home. Anduin hardly seemed to have an interest in him beyond idle curiosity, anyhow; what he had initially taken for interest had swiftly cooled into something more like friendly indifference. Right up until it had become decidedly less friendly, and Saurfang had returned to Orgrimmar, soaking wet and miserable, to find the prince waiting for him in his room. The wild spike of arousal he’d felt in that moment had been rivaled only by his shock, but he had been able to conceal both beneath and mask of aggravation, and it seemed Anduin hadn’t noticed anything was amiss.

Keeping up the ruse had been only too easy once the prince started demanding to be more involved in Horde affairs. It was almost possible to forget that he slept every night smothered by the scent of the human sleeping next door, haunted by dreams that were far from appropriate. And that he often awoke burdened by the uncomfortable reminder of his one-sided attraction, forced to shamefully rid himself of any trace of it before he could face the prince across the floor of the lower hold.

If Anduin had decided to seek other… _company_… well, it wasn’t really his business, was it? Perhaps under some other circumstances he might have rightfully objected, but he had made it clear from the start that Anduin would be free to seek other companionship if he so wished. It was known that he would act as Saurfang’s mate only in an official capacity. Saurfang himself had seen to it that their relationship could not possibly evolve beyond that. So, if Anduin had found that companion in the trade prince, stomach-turning though that thought was, Saurfang could hardly complain. Punishing Gallywix would only make a liar of himself, and further strain an already delicate situation.

Feeling like he needed to bathe, Saurfang growled a curse and climbed the short steps into the hold. He wasn’t certain he could meet Anduin’s eye if the prince intended to confront him over his absence again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to try. The thought of what must have happened… It didn’t bear imagining.

He had only just reached his quarters when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Warchief?”

Saurfang stifled an uncomfortable groan. He turned around slowly, catching sight of Anduin from the corner of his eye. The prince was in what he had come to think of as his casual clothes: soft cloth pants and a loose-fitting shirt. His boots were fit more for a marble hall than the dusty streets of Orgrimmar. His hair was tied back, but as always some of it had come loose, and Saurfang tried to ignore how it made his heartbeat quicken to imagine tucking the wayward strands behind his delicate ears.

He realized too late that he had neglected to answer, and he started. “Highness,” he said, attempting to add something more menacing to his tone, and failing miserably.

“I had hoped you might return sooner than this.”

Why? Was it his intention to flaunt this… obscene association with Gallywix? No—Saurfang had no sooner had the thought than he aggressively dismissed it. He did not know a great deal about Anduin Wrynn, but he knew that the human was not the sort to lower himself in that manner. He would have confronted Saurfang with his choice if he truly wished to make it his concern, and so his silence said all that was needed on the subject. Saurfang would not broach the matter without first being invited to do so. It was almost a relief, in a way.

“You must have run into the trade prince on your way in?” Anduin asked, and Saurfang felt something within his chest sink like an iron weight. He had truly hoped Anduin might simply opt for discretion.

“I did,” he answered carefully.

The prince shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hand was on the door to his own room, as though he was prepared to end the conversation abruptly if need be. “Did he tell you why he was here?”

“Not in so many words, Highness.”

That seemed to bother Anduin, but there was no sign of the reason why. He searched about the empty corridor for a moment before he seemed to come to some decision. “May I speak with you privately?” he asked.

Saurfang wanted to say no. He truly believed it would be in his best interests to open a very full bottle of something strong and forget that the evening had ever happened. But Anduin was watching him with those beautiful blue eyes, and his resolve crumbled almost immediately. He cocked his head in the direction of his own quarters and stomped inside, aware of Anduin behind him every step of the way.

Someone had already lit a flame in the hearth, and the room was warm. Food had been brought up for him: bread and fruit, and some dried meat that wouldn’t spoil. Someone in the hold had known he would be returning, but not when, and had seen to their warchief as best they could. He was filled with a sudden swell of gratitude as he grabbed something from the table to fill his empty belly. His efforts in the Eastern Kingdoms had not left him with much time to look after his own needs.

“I asked Gallywix to come here tonight,” Anduin began almost at once. Saurfang was grateful his mouth was full, because he might have made a rather unpleasant face otherwise. “In truth, I hadn’t thought it would go as well as it did, and certainly not so quickly, but he seemed almost eager to hear what I had to say. He was very agreeable, despite the circumstances.”

_Who could blame him?_ Saurfang wondered. Anduin was a vision. Even now, listening to what would surely haunt him for some time to come, he couldn’t help but admire the human.

Anduin took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “You’ll find out sooner or later, so it’s best I tell you now.”

“Prince Anduin, please, I would rather not know—”

“I went to Darnassus this morning to speak with Lady Tyrande. I convinced her to restore the treaty she had struck with Thrall, during the war in Northrend. With Gallywix in agreement, all that’s needed to finalize the arrangement is your seal.” Surprisingly determined blue eyes looked up into his. “You’ll have your timber, meat and hides, and any other resources Ashenvale can provide.”

Saurfang was struck speechless. Distantly he knew that his mouth was moving, but he had no knowledge of what, if any, sounds he made. Certainly not words, for Anduin’s steely gaze morphed into confusion, and he seemed taken aback by something. “Warchief Saurfang?” he pushed. “I admit that it isn’t perfect, and I had to make some promises to Gallywix that you might not find entirely agreeable…” He trailed off, making a vague gesture before falling silent.

Anduin had gone to the night elves. In a single day—a single _morning_—he had secured rights to a region the Horde had all but written off after Garrosh’s rule. At least not without resorting to all-out war. With access to the ever-growing forests of Ashenvale, the Horde would never want for wood. Their hunters would never return empty handed. Herbs for medicine, fibers for weaving… Ashenvale could provide it all and more, and they would never have to venture beyond the easternmost territory of the forest.

But _Anduin had gone to the night elves_. He had negotiated a treaty in Saurfang’s name, without his knowledge. He had spoken for him, and in doing so risked offending an already hostile neighbor in the name of the Horde. And once that was done, he had called upon one of Saurfang’s own to arrange some sort of deal that could have untold consequences. He didn’t even know what it was Gallywix had agreed to. Given the state the goblin was in when he left the hold, Saurfang wasn’t certain Gallywix knew, either.

But perhaps worse of all, Anduin had gone behind Saurfang’s back.

“_You dared?_” he heard himself growl, a fierce threat in the low rumble of his voice.

“I—what?” Whatever it was that Anduin felt in the wake of Saurfang’s reaction, it was not merely shock. He almost seemed angry himself, but for the hint of fear visible at the edges of his eyes.

Saurfang was too furious to care. “You have no right to speak for me, to speak for the Horde!” he shouted. He knew that others would hear, but he was well past the point that he might have stopped himself for their sake. Or Anduin’s.

“I have _every_ right!” Anduin shot back, surprising Saurfang yet again.

“You have what rights I grant to you, whelp, and no more than that. You are not of the Horde, and you _never_ will be!”

Anduin reeled back as though he’d been struck, and for a few breathless seconds Saurfang thought he might flee, or perhaps even begin weeping. Regret began to creep in alongside his rage, and he hesitated.

But Anduin did neither of those things. Instead, he bared his teeth in his own meager version of a snarl and said, “I will do what is needed for the good of the Horde, especially when its warchief is incapable of doing so himself!”

It did not escape Saurfang’s notice that he had ignored his other remarks. “Presumptuous pup,” he sneered. “I should send for your people to come and collect you.”

“You may do so, Warchief, if you wish. And you may undo all my efforts, strike the treaty, and tell Gallywix to disregard all we discussed, but if you do, you will have to admit that all the Horde _might_ have gained was by my hand. That a _presumptuous pup_ secured the resources that the Horde so desperately needs, behind your back, in a mere fraction of the time it took you to only investigate your options.” He straightened up then, gaining some of the confidence he had been missing since entering Saurfang’s quarters. Lowering his voice, he added, “Or, you can claim my efforts for your own. Allow the Horde to benefit from my presence, and what it brings to your negotiations.”

Saurfang was no fool. He swallowed back the growl that worked its way up from deep within his chest and asked, “And what is it you expect in return for this _benefit_, Highness?” He imagined some deep concession the Alliance had been eyeing for some time, and kept secret from the Horde. Had Varian only feigned opposition to Saurfang’s proposal? Was this their plan all along? His mind reeled with the treacherous possibilities.

“I want to be at your side,” Anduin said plainly, interrupting every one of them.

Saurfang found himself speechless before the prince for the second time that evening. “What?”

“You will no longer leave me behind. You will involve me in Horde affairs, as you would any mate who wasn’t a mere human _whelp_.” Anduin crossed his arms and smirked. It was unfair that such a coarse expression suited him so well. “You may as well; once word spreads of what the people will believe you sent me to secure for their benefit, you won’t be able to shut me out anyway. It will look suspicious.”

Spirits, it wasn’t Gallywix he ought to have been worried about. Anduin was the real goblin. Saurfang huffed and muttered a curse under his breath. He had been outwitted by a human. And to make matters worse he was hard as tempered steel beneath the drape of his tabard. That didn’t seem right at all.

“Well?” Anduin prompted. He had the audacity to tap his foot. “What will it be, Warchief?”

Saurfang blew out a breath and moved over to a table to retrieve an unopened bottle. He pulled the cork with his teeth and took a drink. When he held the bottle out to Anduin, the prince declined. “I think you should have your own palace in Azshara,” he said. “I suppose I owe it to you, given what you’ve done for my people today.”

Anduin smiled, and Saurfang was damned. Something within him crumbled, but he didn’t have it in him to care anymore—or maybe it was just the alcohol.

“Our people,” Anduin said, grinning with admittedly well-earned pride. “They’re _our_ people now.”

  
Less than two weeks later Anduin told Saurfang he wanted to go home.

“Just for the day,” the prince assured him. “I’d like to spend some time with my father.”

Saurfang stared at his own meal and pretended that the thought of Anduin returning to Stormwind didn’t bother him. “You are no prisoner, Highness. You may go wherever you wish.”

“Yes, well,” Anduin cleared his throat. He was picking at his food with his fingers, but had not actually eaten any of it yet. “I wasn’t certain how you would feel about it if—if I left.”

“You intend to return?”

“Of course.”

Saurfang thought perhaps there had been something more he wanted to add to his answer, but instead he remained silent. It seemed an appropriate time to change the subject. “You’ll have an opportunity to put your skills to the test when you do,” he said, returning to his meal as he spoke. “If you are still interested, that is.”

Anduin looked up. Saurfang watched him from the corner of his eye, and waited for the inevitable question.

“_Horde business?_” Anduin asked, placing intentional emphasis on the words to recall their previous arguments over the very same subject. He was smiling, however.

They had come to a sort of informal truce since that explosive evening when Saurfang had returned from the Undercity. Despite the progress made that night, they had nevertheless remained rather distant in the days that followed, neither of them eager to reignite the embers of that bitter exchange. Although Saurfang had made what he felt was an attempt to be more welcoming, he had a feeling his efforts fell far short of the mark regardless.

The morning after their fight he had made a few discreet inquiries, and learned that it had been none other than Anduin who brought the food to his quarters in anticipation of his return. He thought it must have also been the prince who lit the fire in his hearth. Neither of them had ever mentioned it, and in light of Anduin’s work on behalf of the Horde, Saurfang was rather ashamed of himself for letting the silence linger as long as it had. He simply could not bring himself to show the proper thanks. He tried, but the words just wouldn’t come. A part of him wondered if there wasn’t a better way to show his appreciation than awkward formalities. Another thought he was just a coward. The most he had been able to do was agree to these meals they took together each morning in Saurfang’s room. It did not escape his notice that Anduin was spending more and more time in what had once been his private space.

“I will tell you the details when you return,” he said, shoveling something into his mouth to keep from having to say anything else.

Anduin smiled. “Well, that should reassure you that I’ll come back,” he said cheerfully. “After all, I worked quite hard to earn that privilege. It wouldn’t do to turn my nose up at it now.”

  
Following Anduin’s escapade, Saurfang had seen to it that a portal to Stormwind would be available for his use whenever he needed. The least he could do was prove to Anduin that he wouldn’t force him to rely on whatever means he could manage in order to get around. He still didn’t know how the prince had gotten to Stormwind in the first place, and Anduin wasn’t sharing details. According to a terse letter he had received from Varian Wrynn, an Alliance mage would be prepared to return the prince to Orgrimmar whenever he asked. It was the first time he could recall that the Alliance and Horde had allowed such travel between their capital cities. He was rather surprised Varian had agreed at all.

He was even more surprised when Anduin returned that evening as promised. Not because he doubted Anduin, but because it was only too easy to imagine Varian locking his own son away and forbidding him to return to the Horde.

“I would tell you that Father sends his regards, but that would be a lie,” Anduin said. He had come to Saurfang’s quarters from his own after stopping to change out of his blue and gold coat—a gesture to appease his father, he’d insisted. He no longer asked permission to enter, and Saurfang had given up worrying about it. Anduin was already in his every sense as it was, why not simply allow him to take over everywhere else.

“I can only imagine what Varian might have asked you to relate to me instead.”

“You’re probably better off not knowing. So,” Anduin said with a sigh as he arranged his legs beneath him. He had taken a seat across the small table from Saurfang. A pile of scrolls and folded missives lay between them, as well as a half-empty bottle of mead. “This matter you mentioned?”

Saurfang watched as Anduin reached for the mead and tipped the bottle back far enough to take a deep pull of the sweet liquid. His throat worked as he swallowed, and Saurfang briefly forgot how to speak Common. Which was fine, because Anduin almost always insisted on speaking Orcish, anyway. “Warchief?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and set the bottle back on the table.

Saurfang’s eyes drifted to the mouth of the bottle. Tempting. “Yes,” he said, shifting scrolls to find the one he wanted. The alternative was putting his lips to the glass in some demented effort to indirectly taste Anduin’s mouth and he wasn’t quite that far gone. Yet. “Here.” He handed Anduin the scroll that had been sealed with an impression of three distinct hammers.

“From Ironforge?” Anduin remarked curiously. He unrolled the parchment and began to read. “Moira mentions meeting the Horde’s needs in return for what she’s listed here. What is it we need from the dwarves?”

“The Forge,” Saurfang said. He noted that Anduin had referred to Moira Thaurissan by her given name, which was a curious and potentially useful detail. It seemed he still had a great deal to learn about his mate. A fact that did not at all surprise him, given recent events. “Garrosh Hellscream outfitted this city in steel plates to withstand enemy bombardment,” he explained, knowing Anduin was aware of the city’s history already. “But the forges that were used in their construction have long since been dismantled. During an attack by the Legion we learned just what sort of damage some of those plates could withstand. They’re beyond our ability to repair without access to the Great Forge.”

“And so you approached the dwarves.”

Saurfang shook his head. He tapped another scroll. “The dwarves came to us. They need goods only the Horde can currently provide. Their own supply lines were damaged by the Legion, and it will be months yet before they are fully reestablished.”

Anduin seemed surprised. “I find it hard to believe that Moira would come to you. No offense intended, of course,” he added quickly. “It’s just that this peace is so new, I expected it to take time before others would come around to it as we have.”

“She specifically mentions you, Highness. It seems she is aware of our… arrangement.” Saurfang smirked. “These connections of yours work to our benefit yet again.”

“And here you thought I would only be good for smiling at the people,” Anduin said, returning his own wry grin.

“An oversight, to be sure.”

“So, if we are able to provide what Moira has requested, the dwarves will repair the damaged plates. This seems fairly straightforward. Where do I come in?”

At that, Saurfang unrolled the second scroll. The one with a note addressed to Anduin at the bottom. He turned it so the prince could read what it said.

“She wants us to come to Ironforge!” he exclaimed. “But—why?”

“The letter didn’t specify,” Saurfang said. He was certain Anduin could hear his bitterness. “But it would be difficult to refuse, given the nature of this exchange. Not to mention it seems she is quite eager to meet your _wonderful new husband_.” He tried not to cringe at the effulgent vocabulary the regent had used to make her request.

Anduin blushed faintly. “Moira is… a good friend,” he explained.

“Then let us hope she is also a good host,” Saurfang replied. He rerolled the scrolls and set them aside, fighting the urge to reach out to the young human across from him. “What?” he asked when Anduin made a strange face.

“Well,” he said, shrugging, “I really don’t know what sort of host she is these days. The last time I was there she took me prisoner.”

  
In the weeks that followed, as they prepared for what was shaping up to be a far more formal visit to Ironforge than Saurfang would have liked, Anduin’s visits to Stormwind became a regular occurrence. Where Saurfang had once feared that the prince might not return, he now worried that the trips to and from were a sign of something worse; that Anduin was unhappy, and seeking to mitigate that feeling by surrounding himself with familiarity. Saurfang was inclined to blame himself, but it seemed far more likely that the prince was simply homesick. A selfish part of him wanted to feel as though that was unfair. Orgrimmar was Anduin’s home now, and he shouldn’t need to return to Stormwind so often. But he knew that for the lowly spark of jealousy that it was, and so he worked to set aside such unworthy emotions. It was all based on silly, one-sided affection anyhow.

At first he had seen Anduin’s visits to Stormwind as a reprieve from his own inconvenient attraction, until he realized that the feelings only returned twice as hard the moment he caught sight of Anduin striding up the path to the hold. It didn’t do him any good to be away from the source of his problem if the problem only got worse when he returned.

Oh, and the problem _was_ getting worse. He didn’t just dream of Anduin anymore, he woke drenched in sweat from head to toe, his cock aching, his mind filled with the echoes of fantasies he could not dare utter to another soul. He would catch the human’s scent in his sleep and dream of licking his skin, or hear his voice as he drifted off and find himself swept away, only to wake in a panic because he was certain he must be moaning loud enough for the entire hold to hear.

It was unbearable.

His only comfort was the firm belief that Moira Thaurissan, who had been corresponding regularly with Anduin now that they had confirmed their upcoming visit, would almost certainly observe propriety and give them separate rooms. She knew the truth of their situation, after all, and what’s more she was Anduin’s friend. She wouldn’t put him in an uncomfortable situation by forcing them to share their space. Between the heat and the noise of the Forge he was certain he might actually manage a decent night’s sleep for once. In fact, he was looking forward to it.

Just as he was looking forward to seeing Anduin’s face light up when he presented him with what he felt was a suitable thanks for his efforts on behalf of the Horde. He had finally devised a way to avoid actually addressing his own failure to show proper gratitude, or apologize for responding so poorly to what Anduin had done.

He lifted the direwolf pup by the scruff and looked into its eyes. Blue eyes, which he had been assured came from a crossbreed with Frostwolf stock, and would not change as the beast grew. “How long?” he asked.

“Another week or two should see them weaned, Warchief,” the breeder answered. “But this is the runt. Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer another?”

A runt would still be more than enough for Anduin to handle, and twice the size of any normal wolf. He gave the pup’s silvery fur a scratch and said, “This one will do. Send word when it’s weaned. I should be back from Ironforge by that time. If not, I’ll send someone to retrieve it, and see to it you’re well paid for the care you’ve provided. Keep the little beast safe in the meantime.”

“As you command, Warchief.”

Yes, this was much better than an apology or sincere thanks.

And he almost believed that, too.

  
“Father has offered three of his best ships to take us to the Eastern Kingdoms,” Anduin announced, entering Saurfang’s quarters one morning with a folded letter in his hand. It bore the royal seal of Stormwind, and two blue and gold ribbons trailed from the broken wax. Ostentatious, even for Varian. He was showing off.

“Gracious, but unnecessary,” Saurfang said. The Horde may not have been left with much of a fleet following the assault on the Broken Shore, but they weren’t begging favors just yet. Saurfang could still gather enough of his own ships to make a decent crossing of it.

Not to mention that accepting the offer would naturally lead to a stop in Stormwind for a ‘friendly’ visit with the king, and that was unacceptable. He didn’t dislike Varian Wrynn, much, but it had been enough to deal with the man on his own soil, in Orgrimmar. Saurfang couldn’t imagine how insufferable he might be when he had the advantage for himself.

No, it was simply out of the question, and that was that.

“Oh,” Anduin said after an all-too-brief moment of peace. “He’s already dispatched them from Stormwind, it seems.”

Saurfang dropped the quill he had been using and sighed, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger.

  
The day they were to leave Orgrimmar was uncharacteristically gray. Saurfang stood on the dock in Bladefist Bay and watched the sky with a sour expression, suspicious of the smell of rain in the air. If he was to endure a sea voyage aboard Varian’s small fleet, he would have preferred it not be trapped in a cabin, as well. He was only grateful that the crossing was so short; two days, barring rough seas. He could stay awake the whole time if necessary. After all, Anduin’s close proximity was hardly something new. It wasn’t any better or worse than Orgrimmar, really.

“Son!” he heard an all-too-familiar voice call out happily from the closest ship.

Saurfang watched, feeling oddly detached from the moment, as Anduin jogged up the gangplank to greet his father, who had, for reasons Saurfang could probably only begin to guess, accompanied the ships to Durotar.

Two days had never seemed so long before.

  
The first evening at sea, Varian extended an unexpected invitation to Saurfang for a drink in his cabin aboard the _Valor’s Edge_. Saurfang recalled the vessel from his studies of the intelligence reports regarding the Shieldwall campaign in Pandaria. He knew that Varian had more or less informally claimed it as his own flagship, when needs demanded he sail at all. Which explained the comfortable luxury of his cabin. That, or Varian was simply rubbing his good fortune in Saurfang’s face again.

He sniffed the delicate glass Varian handed to him, smelling the sweet, rich aroma of the alcohol within. He received bottles and casks of various spirits on a somewhat regular basis himself, usually presented to him as gifts, or in thanks for some favor granted to a grateful subject. Most of it was earthy, simple. But this… Saurfang took a sip and marveled at the way it coated his tongue, feeling somehow warm and strangely cool all at once. It was sweet, as he’d guessed from the scent, almost unbearably so. He shot Varian a curious look.

“Brandy,” the king replied. He powered back half a glass in one go, and Saurfang couldn’t help but stare.

“It’s been a very long few weeks, Saurfang,” the king groused.

That was fair. In his haste to deal with Anduin’s seemingly endless efforts to work his way into the day-to-day of the Horde, he had almost forgotten that on the other side of the world was a father who had sent his only son into the waiting arms of his one-time enemy. “Your son is doing well,” he said, answering a question he knew Varian was too proud to ask. “Indeed, he seems to be thriving.”

“You’ll forgive me if I worry regardless.”

“Is it his safety that concerns you, Majesty, or something else?” Saurfang snapped without thinking.

Varian looked up from where he was pouring himself a second glass of the thick amber liquid. He narrowed his eyes over the horizontal scar that crossed his face. “It troubles me that I can no longer tell if you’re beginning to sound like him, or he’s beginning to reflect your unrefined way of speaking. The last time he came home to Stormwind he spoke to me in Orcish, you know.”

“I’ve never dictated which language he should speak.”

“No,” Varian agreed, taking a smaller sip, “but you’ve never needed to, have you?”

It was a strange, almost cryptic question, and Saurfang couldn’t hide his confusion. Was Varian alluding to something else? Or was this the standard posturing that Saurfang had come to expect from the human king? He looked into his glass, watching the way it coated the sides like a kind of syrup. He still hadn’t decided whether or not he liked it. “Speak your mind, Wrynn. It’s late.”

Varian, it seemed almost eagerly, took him up on his offer at once. “You told me you had no interest in bedding my son.”

“And that was the truth,” Saurfang lied. It hadn’t been a lie the first time, of course. Strange how quickly things changed. He took another sip to hide his discomfort.

Over the rim of his glass he could see Varian watching him, his steel blue eyes locked on Saurfang’s face, as though he could will the truth from him through sheer determination. Of course Varian knew; he was no fool, he had to know what sort of grace and charm his own son exuded. He must have been fending off suitors from the moment the prince came of age.

And yet… he had allowed a scarred, bitter old orc to wed him. For peace. A concession he knew Varian had not made easily. And it seemed the king was well aware of the lie he was expected to swallow even now. The one that, in his own mind, must surely threaten what he held most dear. It seemed the least Saurfang could do was offer him some sort of comfort in return.

Carefully avoiding the truth, he set his glass down on his thigh and sighed. “I will make no move to compromise the prince,” he said, and meant it. At least, he wanted very much to mean it. His own self-doubts were many and treacherous, and staunchly refused to be set aside with a few reassuring words.

A long stretch of silence passed between them, broken only by the groan of the ship as it cut through the black sea that surrounded them. At length Varian set aside his own glass and re-corked the bottle. It seemed the evening had come to a close, so decided by His Majesty. He glowered at Saurfang. “See that you don’t,” he warned.

  
From the docks, Stormwind appeared before him as a vast and imposing city of gleaming white stone, and Saurfang could not deny that he was humbled by the sight. Only, as he caught Anduin’s proud grin beside him, he felt it best not to admit that much of his awe stemmed from memories of watching the same city burn so long ago.

“Welcome to Stormwind,” Anduin said. He was once more clad in the sort of finery expected of a crown prince, buttoned up to the top of his throat and hidden beneath layers of blue and gold. Saurfang couldn’t say he was saddened by the loss; the less of Anduin he could see, the easier it was to pretend there was nothing untoward in his gaze. And if it occasionally lingered on his golden hair, or his blue eyes, well… He could only hope that the rest of their retinue were too preoccupied by the presence of an orc in their beloved capital to notice his momentary indiscretion.

Saurfang felt a shoulder brush his in a decidedly unfriendly manner, and turned to find Varian muscling his way past. “Welcome _back,_” the king growled under his breath.

Yes, it would be _much_ better if that were so.

Fortunately, pressed for time as they were, there would be no formal dinners, no invitations to attend the king’s court, and no uncomfortable tour of Anduin’s childhood home. They were ushered through the city on horseback. A decidedly unique and unpleasant experience that he had no intention of ever repeating. Where Anduin and Varian had their own steeds—undeniably impressive beasts with a lineage no doubt as long as the royal family’s—Saurfang had been provided a horse nearly twice his width and draped in almost as much fur as a direwolf. It plodded along behind Anduin’s finely armored stallion, and when it wasn’t hanging its long neck low as though halfway to falling asleep where it stood, it was attempting to wander off the path of the city streets and into some dark alley. Only the servants who walked beside them kept the blasted animal on course.

They reached a part of the city known as the Dwarven District and Saurfang had never been so grateful to be consigned to his own two feet again. They stood before the strange cogwheel arch that served as the entrance to the Deeprun Tram, which would take Saurfang and Anduin the rest of the way to Ironforge. Far more convenient than the alternatives, and blessedly empty of onlookers. He wasn’t entirely certain how much he trusted it, but they were well past the point that he might have changed his mind.

“Give Moira my regards,” Varian told Anduin. He opened his arms to embrace his son, and Saurfang watched the tender moment with a strange feeling that was far too much like guilt for his peace of mind.

Some of Varian’s servants had been sent ahead with their things, leaving only the two passengers to board the tram together. Anduin marched down the ramp with the same sort of unburdened confidence he seemed to display in every aspect of his life. Saurfang, feeling a bit like a fool for being so uncertain about a _tram_, of all things, followed close behind him.

As he glanced back over his shoulder at the Alliance king looming in the mouth of the tunnel entrance, Saurfang felt a moment of relief at last. Being subjected to a crossing with Varian Wrynn breathing down his neck was surely the worst of it, and he could finally relax. Ironforge lay ahead of them now, and Saurfang was certain that _nothing_ in the dwarven city could possibly be as bad as what they were leaving behind.

Art by littlegumshoe


	5. Too Close for Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you called it, now sit back and enjoy being right. :)

Ironforge was as magnificent as Anduin remembered. He found himself wishing he had been able to spend more time with the dwarves. More time getting to know their city, their culture. His memories of the grand mountain fortress were a whirl of joy and grief, agony and peace. He would have liked to have made some more, if he’d had the time, but the past few years had been almost as overwhelming as those weeks spent in the company of first Magni and Aerin, and then Moira. Such as it was at the time, given what had occurred.

Though, as things were shaping up so far, this visit would likely be as memorable as the last.

Moira met them at the terminal, her rich auburn hair folded into several delicate yet complex braids that cascaded down her back and twined together. She had a broad smile and open arms for Anduin, and an appraising but surprisingly appreciative eye for Saurfang. As they stood together on the platform, she gave the warchief an unmistakable once-over and grinned. “Aye,” she said cryptically. “Aye.”

Anduin did not comment, nor did he ask for clarification. He didn’t look up to see how Saurfang had reacted, either. It seemed best not to.

She led them around the enormous outer ring of the city, through the Hall of Explorers and into the inner ring, where they were confronted quite abruptly by the staggering heat of the Great Forge. Moira had told him in her letters that their smiths were working the forge almost around the clock, trying to meet the needs of the Alliance in the wake of the war. He could feel the truth of her claim straight through to his core.

“We’ve taken the liberty of settin’ you two up with a room by the High Seat. You remember where that was, Anduin?” Moira asked, smiling strangely. Anduin gave her a quizzical look, but nodded nevertheless. “Good,” she continued, striding along beside them as though her legs weren’t vastly shorter than their own. “Of course, you need only ask for anything else you might require. This may be new to the likes of an orc such as yourself, Warchief, but Anduin here can tell you all about dwarven hospitality.”

She came to a stop at the entrance to a long hallway, one Anduin recognized as the guest quarters near the High Seat, as promised. The heat from the forge made the air a burden to breathe, and caused the clothing to stick to the sweat on his back. He wished she had remembered to give them rooms elsewhere in the city, like the Mystic Ward. Somewhere cool and soothing, and most importantly quiet.

“Here we are,” she announced cheerfully, indicating a large, iron-banded door. The ornate scrollwork that ran around its edges was so intricate and fine that Anduin actually leaned in to take a closer look. “Some of our best chambers, if I do say so myself.”

“Thank you, Moira,” Anduin said. He glanced at Saurfang, who did not appear nearly so pleased to have reached their destination. “Warchief? Is something wrong?”

Moira opened the door for them, and Anduin quickly realized what it was about the accommodations that had Saurfang so distressed; the door didn’t open on an antechamber, but a single room, with a single—rather small—bed.

“Oh, Moira, this—”

“I know, I know,” she assured him. “You don’t like anything fancy. I chose these chambers for that very reason! Now, hurry inside, settle in. I’ll expect you both for dinner at the evening hour. Be prompt, mind!” With a wink almost too quick to catch, she spun on her heel in a whirl of flowing cloth and long braids, and marched off the way they had come. Anduin was left facing the empty room.

He cleared his throat and said, “Well, I suppose we ought to do as she says.”

Saurfang followed him inside. Anduin was pleased to note that the servants had indeed brought their belongings ahead, and he wouldn’t have to wait for his things. He immediately set to unpacking his lighter clothing, which he had brought in anticipation of being so burdened by the overwhelming heat of the Forge. A necessary inconvenience when dining with Moira or the other Hammers. He just hadn’t thought he would also be _sleeping _next to it. Simply maintaining enough comfort to sleep would likely require stripping down almost entirely and—

Anduin froze. He was holding up a linen shirt, and through the thin fabric he could see Saurfang stomping about on the other side of the room.

So _that_ was why Moira had assigned these chambers to her esteemed guests.

He had been honest with her, he knew, but surely not _that_ honest? Suddenly Anduin wished he could ask to see the letters he had sent to her, certain that she must have read something in them that wasn’t there. He wasn’t so foolish as to consign his unrequited interest to a _letter_. One that might be intercepted by anyone. One that might lead Moira Thaurissan to conclude that he and Saurfang should be packed together into one extremely small, extremely hot room with a single, _dwarf-sized_ bed.

The prospect of attempting to sleep any of the four nights they would be in Ironforge had suddenly become daunting, to say the least. Anduin was almost certain Saurfang would demand new accommodations, much as Anduin himself had wanted to in Orgrimmar—much as he wanted to _now_. And what would Moira have to say if they did? If she was acting out of some misplaced desire to be a good friend to Anduin, to help him out with this ‘problem’ of his, she might even become angry on his behalf when Saurfang objected.

Anduin wanted to bury his face in his hands and groan. No matter what happened, this visit was going to be difficult for _someone_. Most likely him.

To make matters worse, there really was nothing he could do about it. If he’d learned anything during his weeks spent with the warchief so far, it was that the man would speak his mind when he felt it necessary. He hardly seemed capable of hiding how he felt, in fact. In most circumstances that was an admirable trait; in a foreign city, as honored guests of the ruling council, in what was once _enemy lands_, it could prove disastrous. He could only hope that Saurfang might keep the same in mind, and bite his tongue.

Anduin grimaced and stifled a needy sound. He shouldn’t have thought of Saurfang’s tongue.

He let his eyes wander the small, austere space; in addition to the washroom there was a smaller room adjacent to the main area which appeared to be a walk-in closet of sorts. Not enough area within to serve as a second sleeping chamber. Not nearly enough materials in the room to create a makeshift bed, either. Unless Anduin—or Saurfang—wanted to sleep on a pile of their own clothes. Which, once he had the idea, Anduin realized the orc might just do. If nothing else, it was entirely possible he might elect to simply sleep on the floor. Anduin couldn’t say he found that possibility disappointing, with things being what they were. It would still put them in proximity close enough to be considered uncomfortable, especially taking into account the oppressive heat of the Forge. He had only been debating it before, but now he was certain: he would have to sleep next to naked in order to sleep at all.

“Windows,” Anduin said when he noticed Saurfang peering curiously at the shutters along the far wall. He saw the warchief’s expression grow hopeful for a few seconds. It saddened him to have to snuff it out again. “No doubt they look down on the Forge.” The shutters themselves did a decent job of blocking the noise, he knew from experience, but not the heat. In fact, they might just make it worse. Mercifully, he hadn’t slept in these rooms during his last visit to Ironforge. Only his brief time spent around the High Seat had given him any indication of what the enclosed spaces nearby were like. He truly wished he had anticipated this and asked Moira to house them elsewhere. As it was he thought he might just bed down in the bath.

“What is this?” Saurfang asked incredulously, standing before the washroom.

Anduin came to look, and his heart sank. There was no bath, not even a small basin; the wash room was actually a sweat room.

Four hot, sweaty nights in Ironforge, in a room the size of a small parlor in Stormwind Keep, with a single bed.

It was fortunate that Saurfang’s muttered curses and complaints were loud enough to cover Anduin’s groan of utter dismay at the thought.

  
Dinner was, as Moira had instructed, a prompt affair. They sat at a medium-length stone dining table in her private chambers, with enough food piled between them to make conversation somewhat awkward. Not that any of them needed help on that score.

“Our cooks didn’t know what sort of cuisine to prepare for an orc, Warchief, so they just made everything!” Moira laughed and tipped back her wine. Anduin had forgotten that she preferred wine to the more common beers her people produced. He was grateful for it this time. “I hope it’s enough!” she added with a wink.

Saurfang’s eyes scanned the table around them and he grimaced slightly. “Your hospitality is appreciated,” he said politely. Anduin shot him a faint but sincere smile over the jutting legs of a roasted fowl.

Moira set aside her goblet and leaned back in her seat, at ease. “I disdain the talk of politics over a meal, but I cannot help wonderin’ after these plates you wrote of in your letter. If they were forged in Orgrimmar, could they not simply be reforged there as well?”

This, it seemed, was a topic Saurfang had no trouble discussing. Indeed, he appeared to relish that he finally had something to say. In another life, in a world far more peaceful than theirs, Anduin thought perhaps Saurfang might have been happy as some sort of scholar. He turned in his seat to regard Moira, and Anduin couldn’t help but enjoy the way he seemed to come alive at the opportunity to explain something that he understood in great detail.

“It’s more complicated than that,” he began. “The forges in the Underhold were built from raw materials the Horde could not truly afford to spare. The thought was that there would be ample resources to replace them following what Hellscream believed would be an easy victory over the Alliance.”

“Surely you didn't just… redistribute it all again?”

A frown tugged at Saurfang’s face, and he made no effort to hide it. “Not exactly.”

Anduin tuned them out after that. He knew of the sacrifices made to fight the Legion, and the high price the Horde had paid to stand beside the Alliance on the Broken Isles. That was history now, and well-known history at that. For the moment his thoughts were focused more intently on the future—namely, his own. He watched Saurfang as he spoke, taking in the way the great orc gestured, describing details with his hands when he was truly interested in a subject. It was a rare sight for him; Saurfang had only recently come to accept Anduin’s presence beyond that of a mere figurehead, and at that his tolerance was clearly grudging. It hardly seemed possible that he might some day speak in such an animated, open fashion with his own mate.

He watched, and all the while he wondered if it was the fact of Saurfang’s reluctance to welcome him that Anduin found so disappointing, or what else it might mean. From the moment he had realized his attraction to the much older orc he had marked it as nothing more than a wistful fantasy. Saurfang was powerful, after all. In all the ways that mattered. He was intelligent. Thoughtful. Clever. And not only was he Anduin’s mate—or husband, he reminded himself, as certain people in his life still seemed unhappy with the more orcish term—he was also _right there_. Saurfang was only a few feet away every single day. It only made sense that Anduin’s initial attraction to him would grow over time. But he was beginning to wonder if that was all he wanted. In all his frustration, his need to prove himself, his determination to make the warchief recognize his value to the Horde, was he actually seeking something else entirely?

Did he want Saurfang for more than what his body so often and so inconveniently reminded him he desired?

“Isn’t that right, Anduin?” he heard Moira ask. Her voice pulled him from his own thoughts and dragged him back to the present.

She was watching him expectantly. Even Saurfang seemed interested in what he had to say. Anduin reached for his glass to take a sip of wine—too much, as it turned out—and cleared his throat. “Could you repeat the question?” he asked.

Moira exchanged a glance with Saurfang, but the warchief didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Or he simply didn’t let slip that he had. “I was tellin’ the warchief that Ironforge’s rams are a far more enjoyable ride than your horses,” she said.

Light, how long had he been staring at Saurfang? They were somehow discussing mounts, and not the reason for the Horde’s need for the Great Forge. Had he made a fool of himself again? “I… think both have their merits,” he hedged. He took another sip of wine to cover up his discomfort.

For some reason Moira found his answer amusing. She laughed and slapped her hand on the table. “Always a diplomat, this one,” she said, gesturing to Anduin with her small thumb. “I see why you’re so keen to have him ‘round, Warchief.”

“He’s proven himself very capable,” Saurfang muttered. He had busied himself with his food, and didn’t seem interested in meeting Anduin’s eye again.

Stellar praise. Anduin sighed through his nose to keep from saying something he might regret. “Diplomatic though my answer may be, it is my honest opinion.”

“Aye, I suppose it’s a fair answer after all. Ah!” Moira brightened up when the servants appeared bearing trays loaded with desserts. They made quick work of clearing the used dishes from the table and replacing them with the host of sweet-smelling cakes, pies, and other treats. By the time they were done the table appeared nearly as full as it had been at the start of the meal.

“I doubt we could finish all of this between the three of us,” Anduin remarked, still somewhat in awe of the offering before him.

“Aye, likely not. I’ve given instructions for the remainder to be distributed amongst the wee ones in the orphanage. There’s plenty more in the kitchens where this came from.”

Anduin hesitated. He wondered how Saurfang, who was eyeing some of the desserts with a keen eye, might respond to what Anduin was about to do. After all, he had been surprisingly gracious about the caravan prisoners in Orgrimmar.

He cleared his throat. “Moira,” he began, “I wonder, could we bring them to the children now, ourselves?” Thought a sidelong glance he caught Saurfang’s eye. “All of us.”

It was an unexpected interruption, to be sure. He caught the flicker of disquiet in Saurfang’s eyes, the slight furrow that drew down between them. For any number of reasons, what he had just suggested was potentially disastrous. Anduin just couldn’t seem to stop himself. He felt as though something more than Moira’s well-planned welcome dinner was unfolding in front of him that evening, and he needed to know what.

At the head of the table Moira was speechless. When she finally did find her voice it was far more amused than Anduin would have suspected. He was pleased to note that she didn’t seem at all offended by his sudden outburst. Indeed, it was even possible she was pleased by it, or at the very least unsurprised that Anduin would make such a suggestion. She folded her small hands on the tabletop and said, “Well, unless you’ve any objections, it seems your mate has a right fine idea, Warchief. What say you?”

Now it was Saurfang who sat in silence as the other two watched him, waiting for his answer. He pursed his lips around his fangs and breathed out a sigh through his nose, the sound of it more like the rumble of the Forge than mere exasperation. At least, that was what Anduin assumed it must be. When Saurfang’s eyes slid away from his, down to the table, and he nodded, Anduin was sure he would hear more of the matter once they were alone. His heart sank a bit, and he wondered if that didn’t tell him everything he needed to know. The prospect was more upsetting than he thought it would be.

Moira’s smile was incandescent. She called for some of her guards to help as they loaded up the trays with desserts. “It’s a good thing the orphanage is close to the High Seat,” she remarked, arms so full that a small mountain of elaborate pastries obscured her face. Saurfang reached down and took one of the trays from her, and she nodded in thanks.

Anduin couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the Horde warchief, his own hands burdened by several diminutive and elaborately decorated dessert trays, holding his bounty aloft as dwarves scurried about below him. “Are you sure you can carry all of that?” he asked.

He received a look that made it quite clear Saurfang knew he was only teasing. “Certain, Highness,” he said with a smirk.

Together, in a small procession of no fewer than nine by the time all was said and done, they made their way from the halls near the High Seat all the way down to the Commons. Saurfang and Anduin remained at the back, and Anduin realized only halfway to the orphanage that it was intentional. “Do you not often find yourself facing small children in your duties as warchief?” he asked.

“I do not. But…”

“That isn’t the reason you’re hesitating now,” Anduin finished for him.

Saurfang shook his head. He seemed unwilling to explain himself at first, and Anduin was almost ready to give up on expecting an answer. At length he heard a quiet sound, almost a growl, and Saurfang said, “I don’t imagine the sight of a grown orc looming over them will put the children at ease.” He lifted one arm to indicate the desserts he carried. “Even an orc bearing cake.”

_It will certainly be a sight,_ Anduin thought with a half-smile. “You give them too little credit, Warchief. Children are far more adaptable than you think. Some may be frightened,” he said, adding, “—at first. But you might be surprised how quickly they overcome those fears that have been taught to them, and accept that you are simply someone new. Someone different, but not necessarily dangerous.”

“Not necessarily?” Saurfang asked with a curious hum.

“Well,” Anduin shrugged, “watch your step, anyway. In the most literal sense. They are much smaller than orc children, after all.”

That drew a genuine laugh from Saurfang, and Anduin felt a frisson of pride creep through his being at the sound of it. He had wanted to see how the warchief might react to something like this. So far he seemed to be handling it with all the grace that would be expected of a man in his position. In fact, nothing about Anduin’s impromptu outing seemed to have bothered him once it was clear that Moira would not object. For that matter, he had hardly raised an objection before she’d made her thoughts known to them. Was that the answer Anduin had been looking for? Hoping for?

What bothered him most was that he still didn’t know. He didn’t know anymore what it was he wanted. He certainly knew what he _desired_, but that hadn’t really been in question since his first moments in Durotar. If Saurfang had balked at their trip to the orphanage, would Anduin have felt relieved? Disappointed, surely, but would it have made matters simpler?

That seemed likely. He frowned at himself.

“Here we are,” Moira announced. She stepped aside to let her guards precede her through the open door of the orphanage. The matron inside could be heard tutting at the children, trying to wrangle them into some semblance of order. “Sorry to intrude,” Moira called out to her, “but the prince here wished to share our bounty with the wee ones a bit earlier than expected.”

“Never, Queen-Regent, never an intrusion,” the matron assured her as she stepped out to greet them. “There’s no thankin’ y—” The words died on her tongue as her gaze fell upon—rather, rose to meet—Saurfang. “Oh my,” she said weakly.

“Warchief Saurfang, if you don’t mind, it may be, er…” Moira struggled for a few awkward seconds. “It may be more practical if my men here relieve you of those trays and take them inside.”

She tilted her head toward the door. The very small door, which Anduin himself would have had to duck slightly to pass through.

“I don’t mind at all,” Saurfang said. Anduin would have bet a hefty amount of gold that he was relieved, in fact.

“Who’s _that?_” a small voice called out from within the structure. A little dwarf, no taller than Anduin’s knee, came charging out. His threadbare clothes hung from his rangy limbs like a costume. Atop his head a mop of red hair was pulled back and tied much like Anduin’s, and he was missing several teeth. Just as the matron had, he stopped in his tracks when he spotted Saurfang. Only the journey upward for his eyes was much, _much_ longer. He cursed in Dwarvish, and the matron clapped a hand over his tiny mouth.

“Apologies, W—Warchief,” she stuttered. Anduin hoped it was from embarrassment, rather than fear. She whispered to the boy in hushed but furious tones, and he looked down and muttered something that might have been an apology.

Saurfang slowly knelt where he was standing. He was still a great deal taller than the small dwarf in that position, but not quite so much as before. “Your name, boy?” he asked in Common.

The child hesitated, and it seemed to take him some time before he worked up the courage to raise his eyes and meet Saurfang’s. “Adreth,” he said.

Saurfang nodded, as though absorbing the single grain of information. “A good name. How long have you lived here, Adreth?”

“Almost a year, sir. Ma and…” Adreth stopped and looked away. His little mouth flattened into a firm line, and his shoulders quivered.

“Your mother and father?” Saurfang asked.

“His father was a gunner aboard the _Lion’s Oath_,” the matron explained. She held Adreth’s shoulders, standing over him protectively. “His mother joined the second wave sent tae find King Varian.”

_And her missing husband,_ Anduin realized with a small, distressed gasp, too quiet to be heard by the others. The boy’s parents had both died on the Broken Shore. In all likelihood within days of one another.

The war had created too many orphans like Adreth. It had nearly made one of Anduin, and a king besides. He was fortunate where many others had not been; though the Legion was defeated, the wounds they inflicted would be felt on Azeroth’s soul for many years to come. Anduin was often reminded of the high cost of victory in ships, weapons, and nameless numbers of soldiers. The true cost, what could _never_ be replaced, was too easily lost in the accounting of those things that could.

Saurfang himself seemed at a loss for words, but only for a moment. In the silence he drew a deep breath and said, “They gave everything to help save our world from the Burning Legion. You should be proud of them both.”

“I am,” the boy said quietly, though without much conviction. As though he was only repeating what he thought others wanted to hear. He was still staring sorrowfully at the floor.

“And,” Saurfang added somberly, “you can miss them greatly without ever diminishing that pride. There is no shame in grief, boy. No reason to conceal it.”

Adreth looked up and blinked a few times, as though still trying to force back tears. “Yes, Warchief,” he said. This time he seemed more convinced of the words. He straightened up and squared his shoulders in a faint but admirable imitation of Saurfang’s natural bearing.

Saurfang reached out and gave Adreth’s chest a gentle—very gentle—pat with the side of his closed fist. Anduin didn’t understand the gesture, had never seen it performed at any other time, in Orgrimmar or elsewhere. He filed it away for later, when he could ask Saurfang what, if anything, it meant.

“Adreth,” Anduin asked, intruding on the moment if only to help ease the tension, “would you like to have some dessert with us?” He held out his hand, and Adreth hesitated, looking first at Saurfang and then at the matron standing over him, as though asking if it was alright. When he received what Anduin took to be permission from both, he nodded. “Do you like chocolate?”

Adreth’s eyes lit up, and he all but bounded to where Anduin was standing. “Aye, I like it best, Yer Highness!” he proclaimed.

His sorrows set aside for the moment—but never truly forgotten, Anduin knew—the boy dug into the slice of cake that was passed into his tiny hands by Moira. All in all, it was nearly half his size.

“Alright, gather ‘round,” the matron called out, beckoning the other children to her. “We’ve guests. Ye’ve all got manners to mind, I taught most of ye meself.” One by one they came to stand around her, some still fearful enough to hide behind her skirts. All eyes were trained on Saurfang, who remained crouched on one knee before them.

“This here is Warchief Saurfang. Who can tell me what that means?” she asked. She directed the question at the children milling around her.

“He’s in charge o’ the Horde!” one of the children shouted, drawing out the O in Horde, as though proud of her answer. She was a bit taller than some of the others, and likely older, too.

“Aye, that’s correct. And some of ye may already know Prince Anduin o’ Stormwind.”

Anduin bowed to the children, and they tittered and shifted about in nervous excitement.

Moira spoke up then, and the children all turned to her almost at once. No surprise; she had her father’s commanding presence. “His Highness here has recently been wed to the warchief,” she explained. “He lives in Orgrimmar now. That’s the capital of the Horde, like Stormwind is for the Alliance.”

Even though they were only children, and unlikely to make any intuitive leaps based on Moira’s statements, Anduin couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable over the very public discussion of his marriage to the warchief of the Horde.

“Why?” one of the children asked. An honest question, asked with total impropriety as only a child could.

Anduin glanced at Saurfang and saw that he was smiling slightly. “Peace,” he said. The sound of his deep voice made some of the children jump, as though they had somehow forgotten he was there.

Anduin couldn’t hide his own grin. “That’s right,” he added, nodding, “we’re going to work together to make it so that Azeroth prospers. For all of you.”

He could see that the fear was slowly easing, the unknown becoming known as the children inspected Saurfang from a safe distance. He was large, green, and pointy, but not a danger to them. He had come with the others bearing gifts. He was with Anduin and Moira. Anduin could almost see these things working together to untie the knots of hatred formed from a long association with war and death. So little effort for so much good.

“Do ye have any wee ones?” a little girl abruptly shouted over the others.

Anduin’s mouth fell open in shock, and he heard some sound escape him, but it was nothing he might have been proud of. He looked over at Saurfang, and found that he was similarly struck silent. His eyes were wide, and he had all but frozen where he knelt.

“Ah, no,” Anduin said when he finally managed to locate his voice. He cleared his throat and tried not to let himself look away. Or blush. “We don’t. It isn’t—it doesn’t really work that way—”

The same girl immediately followed up with, “Do ye want some?”  
  


Art by littlegumshoe

  
Their visit to the orphanage being what it was, the hour was far too late to ask for a private meeting with Moira by the time they were through. Anduin resigned himself to speaking with her in the morning, instead. A single night spent in the same bed with Saurfang was not so terrible that he couldn’t manage it. Tomorrow he would ask her for a change of rooms, and explain the situation, correcting any misunderstanding he might have caused with his carelessness.

But while he was confident he could last the night, what he wasn’t so sure of was how gracefully he could do so. The terrible heat notwithstanding, their quarters were fairly small, and the bed even smaller. Sharing a bed with the man was something Anduin had, quite privately, hoped might one day happen. Doing so under these circumstances, however…

Making matters worse was Saurfang’s remarkable display of compassion and nobility outside of the orphanage. Anduin had never believed he might intentionally frighten the children, but all signs had pointed to his reluctance to approach them, let alone engage with them so kindly. He was somewhat ashamed of himself for thinking so little of the man when it was clear now that he had a great sense of empathy. Anduin had learned something about himself tonight, watching Saurfang engage so carefully with the children of Ironforge: he was not so devoid of preconceived notions as he once believed himself to be. Saurfang had surprised him, and he shouldn’t have. Not if Anduin truly had the sort of faith he claimed to.

But more than that, he had answered his own question.

His attraction to Saurfang was about more than proximity. More than what he was; it was about _who_ he was. Not simply a man to whom Anduin was attracted because of his strength, his intellect, or his bearing, but someone with a good heart and a thoughtful mind.

Someone who would never, ever feel the same way about Anduin.

And now he knew for certain that the truth _had_ only made things worse. Before, when it was only a silly infatuation, he had lusted after a man he hardly knew. He could have accepted that and still been happy to serve the Horde at Saurfang’s side. But in coming to know him, to appreciate him as more than just an effective leader and a good man, Anduin found himself trapped. Hopelessly yearning for something he could never have.

Something that would now lie only inches away, untouchable.

Anduin had taken the small closet as an informal dressing room, and he let the hem of his sleeping shirt fall to his thighs. He would have preferred to sleep in far less, especially given the heat, but he could not imagine facing Saurfang across the small bed in anything less than a shirt and loose-fitting linen pants. Not now.

Saurfang was already in the bed with most of the lights extinguished when Anduin emerged. He was facing away, his body turned toward the metal shutters, and the broad expanse of his scarred green back was like a wall.

Anduin climbed into the bed and turned so that his own back was to Saurfang’s. Though he couldn’t tell if the man was asleep or not, he whispered, “Good night, Warchief,” anyway.

A flat grunt of acknowledgment was all he received in reply. Anduin sighed and closed his eyes.

The heat coiled around him and squeezed like a serpent. Unrelenting, unforgiving. It denied him even the small mercy of an empty mind.

_Good night_, indeed.  
  


  


Art by littlegumshoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this fic is supposed to hit 100k before the end, feel free to mention any common tropes you're hoping to see. I have a bunch planned, but I love to hear what you all have in mind.


	6. The Cold Shoulder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Announcement!**
> 
> Please take a moment to go back and check out the fantastic art by littlegumshoe that's been added to the previous chapters, because it's honestly the best thing ever and they deserve all the praise for such amazing, adorable, and hilarious work. I am extremely grateful to them for their generosity, sharing such great art with me and letting me share it with all of you! I'm going to spread the pictures out between the existing chapters, where they're most appropriate, so make sure to take a look!

Saurfang lay perfectly still, his knees hanging over the edge of the ridiculously small bed. He was as close to the edge as he dared, and yet it didn’t seem nearly far enough. With every twitch, every uncomfortable sigh from Anduin, he was made agonizingly aware of just how close the prince was, and just how hot, sweaty, and restless he felt.

After what seemed like hours of Anduin’s tossing and turning, the prince finally gave up. _“This is ridiculous!”_ he hissed, apparently convinced Saurfang was asleep and would not hear him. How he believed even an orc could sleep through his acrobatics was something that left Saurfang puzzled.

He felt Anduin leave the bed, and for one hopeful moment he thought the prince had simply given up on sleeping. If he went for a walk instead, or even sought out someone who might find him more suitable accommodations, Saurfang could get a peaceful night’s sleep without the fear of making an inappropriate sound or—spirits help him—saying something in his sleep. But after a few moments of shuffling about, some foul curses that were frankly unbecoming of a royal, and a dramatic fall back onto the bed, Saurfang realized Anduin wasn’t going anywhere.

He also realized, with a lurch of supreme horror turning over in the center of his chest, that what he’d heard was Anduin removing his clothing.

And now that he knew it, he could swear that he _felt it_, too. Anduin’s bare skin, the sweat Saurfang could already smell, even the slowing beat of his heart. He was no longer tormented by the heat, but it had come at the cost of his modesty. Evidently he just didn’t care.

Now it was Saurfang who felt enclosed by the very air around him. His own heart beat faster to compensate for Anduin’s more relaxed state, and his body tensed with every breath. He was suddenly keenly aware of the limited space between them, and how very inadequate the dwarven bed truly was.

This was worse than anything he could have imagined; worse even than Varian’s knowing glare when Saurfang had lied to his face and claimed he still had no interest in Anduin.

His mind seized on that thought: _Yes, Varian! Focus on Varian!_

He kept the king’s scarred visage in his mind as he fought to ignore the pounding of his heart and the throbbing of… other things. He had gone to bed clothed, which he normally disdained, but even so it did little to hide the effect Anduin’s presence had on him. All the prince would have to do was sit up in the bed and cast his glance a little south of Saurfang’s waist to find the evidence of how he truly felt. The thought of having to explain that to Anduin, who would almost certainly find his lack of control offensive, if not outright vulgar, was appalling.

Of course, thinking of Anduin even in that context only compounded the problem.

Varian. No, that wouldn’t do, as thoughts of Varian unfailingly led back to Anduin. Who, then? Tyrande? He dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it came to him; her demeanor was icy enough where he was concerned, but her shape was far too pleasing to solve his current problem. Even Sylvanas didn’t quench the fire building in his loins, and that disturbed him quite a bit—just not enough to be of any use. Gallywix, damn him, only brought Saurfang’s thoughts back to Anduin once again.

Lor’themar… Greymane… Proudmoore… Baine… 

He could have cursed himself if he didn’t know it would draw Anduin’s attention. Not a one of them helped the situation and he knew at least a good half would have eagerly killed him if given the chance.

Anduin had fallen asleep by then, and his discomfited shifting had finally stopped. Now he moved more easily, more naturally.

And right into Saurfang.

Right. That was just about enough.

Saurfang hauled himself out of the bed with all the agility granted to him by decades of battle-hardened experience. He moved to his feet to find the rest of his clothes and swiftly crossed the room to the door, where he had left his boots. Anything, _anything_ was better than this hell of his own making. Even if it meant the hell of being left to his own devices in an unfriendly, unfamiliar city.

Art by CryArt

Ironforge was all but empty at such a late hour, with the merchants and citizens all tucked away for the evening, and only the guards—and their steely-eyed stares—to note Saurfang’s presence. No one made an attempt to usher him back to the areas around the High Seat, where they no doubt felt he belonged. At some point, as he drew nearer to the darkened Mystic Ward, he caught sight of an informal escort of sorts, trailing behind him at a safe distance. Safe for whom, of course, he did not know. Though he thought he might guess.

Despite the blessed solitude, Saurfang still found himself distracted by thoughts of Anduin. With each passing day, his regard for the human prince grew stronger, and he seemed powerless to stop it. Worst of all, he knew that the problem did not lie with Anduin, but with himself. It was the desire he felt, only strengthened by the knowledge of how dedicated, tenacious, and honorable Anduin truly was. Saurfang was somewhat ashamed to admit that his initial attraction had been based almost entirely in the prince’s physical appeal, although that had not lasted long. Anduin’s actions, and his stubborn refusal to yield to Saurfang’s will, had opened the orc’s eyes to what he had tried so very hard to ignore. That Anduin was, despite all of Saurfang’s desperate denial, a remarkable young man.

Now he wanted him for something more. For his _heart_. His irrepressible spirit. He wanted him, and the echo of Varian’s warnings loomed over that yearning like an ill-tempered black cloud.

He could not, under any circumstances, violate his promise to the king. No more than he had already; he knew Varian’s patience was at its limit after their conversation aboard the _Valor’s Edge_. It would not suffer a second transgression, and no need of his own was worth sacrificing peace with the Alliance, not when it had already accomplished so much for the Horde.

Not when Anduin had accomplished so much.

Saurfang growled and clenched his fists at his sides. Even if he thought it acceptable to break his word—which he absolutely did not—it was irrelevant; Anduin was a beautiful, spirited young man, with any number of better prospects. He had bound himself to Saurfang for political reasons, not mutual attraction, and certainly not for the sake of affection. At most Saurfang might hope the prince would entertain his interest on some lonely evening, if only for the sake of satisfying his own curiosity. But any such encounter would undoubtedly only leave Saurfang wounded and wanting. Hopelessly besotted and now keenly aware of what he could never have.

Though, some miserable part of him wondered if it might not be worth the pain.

No. Anduin would never stoop so low. Not only because it was an inherently cruel and undignified act, but because it was not his way. Saurfang was no great study of human behavior, but he knew that their royalty, at least, were not so careless with their more physical affections. Passing succession from father to son required far more intent than placing the strongest warrior at the head of the pack. It was a strange system, and Saurfang personally thought it a very limiting system, but it was theirs nevertheless. It was Anduin’s way.

He snorted quietly to himself. He didn’t even know for sure whether or not Anduin had any interest in males.

Or male _orcs_.

A blood elf might prove a far more pleasing companion for the prince. Similar in beauty, and not so very large. Saurfang’s strength was his pride, but he felt a great deal like an ungainly brute when standing beside one so graceful as Anduin. To say nothing of the great disparity in age...

Saurfang grimaced around his fangs. He truly had made a mess of things. It all seemed so very simple when he was negotiating peace with Varian in some quiet corner of the Legerdemain. So easy to think of nothing more than the short term. The matter itself was simple, straightforward, just as he preferred: wed the prince, protect the Horde. Those were his only concerns.

Now here he was, wandering the empty halls of Ironforge in the middle of the night, distressed over the loss of something he never really had to begin with.

He liked Anduin. He liked the thought of him; as a man, as a companion, as a mate. He could feel his heartbeat quicken the moment he heard the prince approaching his quarters in Grommash Hold. He anticipated their discussions over the morning meal, their debates. He liked listening to Anduin’s quick wit as he met Saurfang barb-for-barb. Breathing in his scent, which seemed to suffuse the very air around him whenever the prince was nearby. Gazing upon the soft lines of his face; the pale pink of his cheeks and the stunning blue of his eyes. He was humbled by his generosity and heart. Truly awed by his intellect.

But more than any of that, he _respected_ Anduin. It was almost impossible not to.

And in deference to that respect, he would not allow his feelings to become more of a problem than they already were. Anduin had come to him willingly, for the sake of Azeroth and her people. That sacrifice deserved recognition. It did not deserve to be mocked by one weak man’s silly infatuation.

He came to a crossroads of sorts—far more literally, this time. The outer ring of the city split off into a hall that he thought might take him back to the Great Forge, and from there the High Seat, but the only sign indicating whether or not that was true was written in Dwarvish. He couldn’t read Dwarvish, he could only speak it. And in a somewhat limited capacity, at that.

“Lost, Warchief?” he heard a familiar voice ask.

Saurfang turned and looked down to find the queen-regent standing behind him. Her small hands were clasped behind her back. She wore much simpler robes than those she had donned for their dinner.

“Shall I have my guards escort you back to your room?” she asked.

Were it not for the friendly smile that accompanied the question, Saurfang might have thought it was meant to remind him of his tentative status as a guest in the dwarven city. But Moira Thaurissan did not strike him as the sort of woman to be vague in her threats.

He nodded. As much as he did not want to return to that small bed and the young prince so painfully out of reach within it, he knew it was time.

“I can take you there myself, if you’d like,” she offered. There was a strange look in her eye, as though she had something else she wished to say, but held it back. Perhaps out of respect, perhaps because they were being watched.

Well, if it might mean delaying the inevitable…

“I would be honored, Regent.”

She turned only enough to dismiss the guards hovering just out of sight, and then said, “Follow me.” Setting off at a surprisingly brisk pace, she led him to the left, down the hall with its towering stone ceiling and carved columns reinforced with steel. He felt the Forge before he saw it, and they turned a corner into the powerful sound of molten rock churning in the pit below. “I’ve a confession to make, Warchief,” she said after an extended silence.

Saurfang glanced her way and arched a brow at her as he walked.

“I find your relationship with Anduin confusing,” she said. “Are you not wedded?”

This was not the topic he had expected her to broach so openly. He almost wished she had been angling for something far more sinister; his _relationship_ with Anduin, as she called it, was the last thing he wanted to discuss. With anyone. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Pardon my lack of manners, Warchief—” She stopped herself, and her quick pace faltered only enough to fall a step behind Saurfang. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you out here?”

“I wanted some air,” he said simply. No need to provide more information than she was due; his thoughts were his own, even in her city.

“Is everything alright with Anduin?”

Saurfang fought back a growl. He was not accustomed to being pestered about his personal life. Not by anyone, and certainly not his one-time enemy.

But Moira had pressed on before he could think of a way to respond. “I must apologize again; Anduin is a dear friend, you see. We’ve been through much together.”

“So he’s told me.”

Moira laughed—a loud, sharp bark of a laugh that rang off the stone and metal that surrounded them. Even the roar of the Forge did little to dull the sound of it. “Aye, I had a feeling he might’ve made mention of that little incident. It was a different time, Warchief. I imagine it hasn’t always been clear skies between the Horde, either.”

He grunted in agreement. That much was true, at least, though she didn’t need details.

“Surely you must understand my concern,” she said, making it sound as though her prying was only natural. To be expected, even. “Given the nature of this marriage—”

“The nature of this marriage is not very different from your own, if I am not mistaken.” He knew he’d crossed a line, that her late husband was not his business to discuss, but he satisfied himself with the reminder that her own small toes had tread that same line first. His bond with Anduin was not her concern, regardless of how dear they were to one another.

He expected a rebuke at the very least, and possibly a glimpse of her famously vicious temper, but his interruption was only met with silence. They walked the circuit of the Forge, coming to a stop in front of the arched doors before the High Seat.

“Aye,” she said at last. “I, too, found happiness in the arms of one who I had always been taught was my enemy.”

“This is not—” It wasn’t anything like that. It was, as Varian had so snidely reminded him in one of his letters, a marriage of convenience.

Moira was gazing up at him with a strange expression on her face. “Is it not?” she asked. She seemed genuinely surprised by his denial.

“I don’t know what you may have heard, Regent, but I have taken the prince as my mate only to further solidify relations with the Alliance. Our mutual victory over the Burning Legion was not enough to bury our bloody history.” That sounded like the truth, anyway. “The prince is an example for his people and an ambassador to the Horde, nothing more.”

“You’re having a laugh?” she asked.

He shook his head. Dwarven sarcasm was not something he was certain he fully grasped. “I don’t understand.”

Moira was scowling. She looked away and muttered, “I’m beginning to see that.”

They continued on without another word, and she led him down the same corridor they had traveled when they first arrived. With a wave of relief Saurfang finally began to recognize where he was. It would only take another turn to the right to put him back where he had started. Moira stopped before that, and Saurfang turned around to thank her, but she was already marching back the way they had come. A parody of their arrival in the dwarven city, with all the friendliness and good cheer evaporated. He was left to find his own way back to the room, still puzzled by her strange behavior. Fortunately it wasn’t far. He didn’t have much time to ponder.

Anduin was still asleep when he entered, only he was no longer curled on his side, the more intimate parts of him obscured by the corner of a blanket. Instead he was sprawled face-down atop the bed, one hand and foot each hanging over the sides, his face slack in sleep.

Saurfang felt something lurch uncomfortably in his chest, and he turned away from the sight.

There was a chair in the corner. It was small, and made of wood, but it would do.

It would have to.

Art by littlegumshoe

It was Anduin’s hand that shook him awake the next morning. Saurfang blinked and grimaced at the pain that shot up his spine, seizing his neck like a kitten picked up by its scruff. He rolled his joints and listened to them crack one by one. The lingering soreness was an effective ward against the sight of Anduin in no more than a pair of low-slung linen pants that bared far too much of his hips and abdomen for Saurfang’s comfort.

“Moira and Muradin have invited us to go riding,” he explained. “We’re expected at the gates in fifteen minutes.”

Saurfang made a sound that he had intended as a mild rebuke; Anduin should have woken him earlier. What actually came out was something between a growl and a whine-like groan. He was in no mood to go running about Dun Morogh.

Anduin, having correctly interpreted whatever sound Saurfang made, put his hands on his unfortunately-visible hips and frowned. “Muradin’s only just returned to Ironforge this morning. He’ll be gone again tomorrow.”

Through eyes sinking closed of their own accord, Saurfang could make out the faint trail of hair in the center of the prince’s abdomen. It disappeared somewhere just above his belly, leaving the rest of his chest smooth. Unmarked by anything but the occasional faint freckle. That was _not_ what Saurfang needed to see.

“What of Wildhammer?” he asked absently. He was no longer looking at Anduin—at least, he wasn’t _facing_ him.

“Away. Something about those lines of trade they’re trying to reestablish. The ones we’re going to help make up for in the meantime.”

That was a small favor; only Muradin Bronzebeard to deal with apart from Moira. Saurfang abruptly recalled his strange conversation with the queen-regent the night before, and he swallowed thickly past the lump that had formed in his throat. What had she been driving at, exactly? What was it she thought he didn’t understand?

“I’m told we’ll be stopping in Kharanos for breakfast,” Anduin said. He had finally returned to the other side of the room to fetch the rest of his clothing. As he picked over the contents of his bags Saurfang thought he caught a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Is something wrong?” he asked without thinking. _Distance,_ he admonished himself. _Keep your distance._

Anduin paused in his search, then shook his head and went back to what he’d been doing. “Nothing,” he said. An obvious lie.

Under other circumstances, in a different setting, Saurfang might have called him on it. He did not appreciate being lied to. However, as it was, he could only feel grateful for having something else to think of.

Anduin disappeared into the closet-turned-changeroom, emerging a few minutes later in clothing more suited to the snow. His brow was damp with sweat and he was breathing hard. “I hope you won’t mind if I don’t wait for you,” he said. He seemed to be in a mood of his own, and Saurfang suspected that it wasn’t just the heat that caused it.

“Of course not. I’ll join you shortly.”

He was able to dress quickly once Anduin was gone. Being far more accustomed to warmer climes than the prince, he wasn’t nearly so overwhelmed by the heat of the nearby Forge. It was perhaps a bit more than he would have preferred, but not unbearably so. He found himself wondering how Anduin would fare in the high summer of Durotar. When the sun baked the clay soil until heat wafted back into the air in shimmering lines of light. Would he strip down in the hold, too?

No, he couldn’t think of that. Nothing like that. It was enough that he had made it through his first night with Anduin so close. That he hadn’t made a fool of himself—

Despite the Forge, his blood ran cold. Was _that_ the reason for Anduin’s mood? Saurfang wiped a hand over his face and tried to think. Had he said something in his sleep, given himself away somehow? Spirits, had he…?

Saurfang groaned and leaned over in the chair, bracing his hands on his knees. He must have, that was the only explanation. He’d allowed himself to fall asleep in Anduin’s presence, and now his shameful secret was out.

His heart felt like it might pound its way out of his chest. It wasn’t the possibility of further offending Varian that worried him, nor even the humiliation of exposing himself to the prince in such a way—although that was certainly not something he had ever wished to experience. No, it was facing the reality that Anduin _was_ disgusted by him, by the wrongness of his attraction. A reality that seemed to have come to pass without his even realizing. Anduin had been eager to escape Saurfang’s presence, and only bothered waking him at the last possible moment. He clearly wanted nothing to do with whatever it was he’d overheard. Worst of all, Saurfang couldn’t begin to guess what that might be.

Now he was expected to spend the day with Anduin, Moira, and Muradin. Anduin would undoubtedly act as though nothing had happened, he was too polite to do anything else. But Moira was clearly already aware of something strange between them—had she guessed Saurfang’s desires before they were revealed to Anduin? His mind reeled with the possibilities. If she was close friends with Anduin, it stood to reason she was familiar with Varian, as well. Varian must have made the terms of their arrangement—those both official and more private—common knowledge among the other leaders of the Alliance. Perhaps even for just such an occasion as this. If that was the case, he would likely know of Saurfang’s indiscretion within the day.

While it was unlikely the king would throw away the benefits of peace for a stray remark uttered in the throes of sleep, it did not mean he would allow a slight against his son’s honor to go unanswered.

Saurfang donned his own clothing almost mechanically, lost in thought as he was. He left the room and made his way down the corridor, where he found one of Moira’s servants waiting to accompany him to the city gate. There he found the rest of his party already prepared for their journey.

“Warchief Saurfang,” Muradin exclaimed in a voice that almost shook the stone halls. He strode forth as though he towered over the orc, something dwarves seemed naturally inclined to do, stopping to dip his head low and offer his welcome. “I’m relieved tae greet ye on more… amiable terms than when last we met, though I regret that I couldn’t be here for yer arrival. I understand ye dined with my niece an’ made a visit to the local orphanage. Quite a first night in Ironforge, I’d say.”

Something of an understatement. “Indeed,” Saurfang agreed, bowing in return. He had managed to avoid thinking of his last encounter with the dwarven thane up to that moment, but of course their people were not the sort to tiptoe around such things. He tried to keep his voice even as he spoke. “She has been quite gracious in her hospitality.”

“It’s the dwarven way, Warchief. Ye’ll come to know it quite well, I’m sure. Ye may even get a further glimpse of it today, as we’ll be among the more common folk.”

Given his own thoughts, and the discomfort Saurfang could sense from Anduin even now, that seemed unlikely. Still, he nodded, and when the time came he followed the others outside, into the chill winds of Dun Morogh. Almost right away he realized he had not dressed appropriately for such weather. He hadn’t even thought to bring clothing that might protect him from the elements, as Anduin had. Their visit was never meant to include a jaunt outdoors, and he knew the city to be more than warm enough. A wave of regret came over him as he realized his mistake, and he felt twice the fool for being so careless.

The light touch of a hand on his arm drew his attention down to Anduin, walking at his side.

“I noticed you hadn’t brought anything for the cold,” he said quietly, “and so I asked Moira for something warm you might wear.” He pulled a roll of what appeared to be thick, dark fur from his pack, and handed it to Saurfang. “I hope this will be enough.”

Saurfang unrolled the fur to find it was in fact a rather broad cape, fitted with a clasp of two silver ram’s heads. They were positioned as though charging one another from either end of a length of chain. It covered his bare shoulders and arms, and warmed him quite effectively. He shrugged in comfort beneath the thick fur gathered at his neck. “Thank you,” he said.

Anduin only lifted his cheeks in the imitation of a smile, but it was an altogether empty gesture. Saurfang set aside the feeling of pleasant surprise and reminded himself that this was only a formality, only a prince doing what was expected of him.

Four rams were brought to them at the gate, and Saurfang was certain he could smell the beasts before they had reached the top of the rise. One, dark gray and bearing a single curled horn on the side of its head, was a great deal larger than the others. It fought its handler and snorted blasts of hot breath into the air, its odd, rectangular pupils searching wildly for some way to break free.

“I probably dinna need to tell ye which one is yours,” Muradin said. “He’s a spirited beast, but I’m sure a man such as yerself can bring him to heel easy enough.”

“Oh, Muradin, is that really—” Anduin began, only to be cut off by the thane.

“Aye, lad. He’s the only one we’ve got that’ll bear yer mate there without breaking the poor thing’s back.”

“I see.” Anduin, sitting atop his own snow-white ram, shrugged helplessly at Saurfang. “Perhaps he’ll calm down as we ride.”

Saurfang looked at the ram, and the ram, tilting its broad, flat face, looked right back at him.

Unlikely.

Art by littlegumshoe

They were almost to Kharanos before Anduin spoke up again. “Perhaps we should press on to Coldridge,” he called to Muradin and Moira over the snow-muffled sound of the rams’ hooves. “It’s still early.”

Saurfang said nothing, as it was not his place to determine their destination that morning. However, he privately hoped they might agree; cape or no cape, it was bitterly cold, and he wished to return to Ironforge as quickly as possible. Though distantly he did wonder why Anduin was so keen to keep riding past the village.

Moira turned in the saddle and frowned back at him. “Skip breakfast?” she asked, as though that itself was an answer.

Anduin hunched slightly where he sat, letting his ram plod along behind the others. He did not raise an objection again. Saurfang thought there was something very strange about seeing him so devoid of the endless drive and vitality he seemed to possess at all other times. His blue eyes were downcast, fixed upon his own hands where he held the leather reins in a white-knuckle grip.

“Your Highness?” Saurfang asked. Distance be damned.

Anduin lifted his head and looked at him. The falling snow settled on the fur that lined his hood, and in the strands of golden hair that peeked out past his pink cheeks. If he didn’t appear to be so very miserable, Saurfang might have allowed himself to let his gaze linger, and appreciate the prince’s beauty. If only for a moment.

“Is everything alright?” he asked instead. From the corner of his eye Saurfang thought he caught sight of a furtive glance from Moira, but his focus was on Anduin. Let her speculate as she wished. “Do you need to return to the city?”

“Oh—no, I’m fine,” Anduin lied for the second time that morning. “Thinking, that’s all.”

Once more Saurfang’s fear of having revealed his inappropriate thoughts reared its head, and he found himself unable to do anything more than stare and gape awkwardly at the prince.

Now it seemed it was Anduin’s turn to worry. He frowned up at Saurfang. “Warchief? Are you—?”

“Prince Anduin, if I’ve… said anything…”

“Ah, here we are!” Muradin called out. He held his arms up to indicate the modest, snow-covered village that rose from the endless sea of white before them.

According to Muradin’s brief explanation at the start of their ride, Kharanos was the second largest settlement in Dun Morogh, after Ironforge itself. The village’s squat buildings stood like monuments in defiance of the everlasting winter, belching smoke into the morning sky, promising warmth within. Saurfang nearly dismounted in anticipation of finding himself a hearth before he remembered that he was speaking to Anduin, and _why_. He turned his attention back to the prince to find that it hardly mattered; Anduin was no longer looking at him. Instead, his troubled gaze had settled upon the large, stone building before them.

Moira began divvying out instructions to the dwarves who had come to take their mounts. Saurfang spotted the hammers of Ironforge pressed into their leather, and he realized that they were yet more guards. Hunters, by the look of them. It seemed the martial strength of the dwarves was greater than he had expected. It was admittedly impressive, especially given the climate.

Anduin stood aside as they bore the white ram away to some stable Saurfang couldn’t pick out from the other nearly identical gray buildings. He had a tight frown on his face.

It was clear now that something truly was wrong, and despite the dread eating away at him from the inside, Saurfang was determined to learn its cause. He stepped in close to block the wind and keep his voice from carrying to the others. “Your Highness,” he said, “I may not be who you wish to speak to, but if there is something—”

“It isn’t you,” Anduin said quickly. He shook his head. The sigh he breathed out into the winter air billowed like a cloud. “It’s something I hadn’t thought I would have to face, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

“I disagree.”

Anduin looked up. For a moment he seemed annoyed by Saurfang’s refusal to simply let the matter rest, but then he grasped the meaning of the orc’s words, and he nodded. “I lost a friend here,” he explained. “In this very spot.” He turned and pointed to the building before them, its roof and outer walls adorned with oversized kegs. It appeared to be a brewery of sorts. If Saurfang could read the placard he might have known for sure what purpose the structure served. Instead he waited for Anduin to explain.

“The distillery collapsed during an earthquake. She was helping to rescue the survivors trapped inside. There was an aftershock.”

He didn’t need to say more, Saurfang could guess what had happened next. Anduin seemed to understand that as well, and he looked away, settling his gaze on Moira, Muradin, and the others.

At length he asked, “Do you think you could help me find a few minutes to myself out here? I know this isn’t your problem, but—”

“I will see to it you have the time you need,” Saurfang assured him. He lingered just long enough to catch Anduin’s grateful smile—a real one, this time—and then turned and marched across the snowy road to join the others.

He thought he heard a quiet, “Thank you,” behind him as he walked away.

  
As the day wore on and their journey brought them back to more familiar roads, Saurfang found himself wondering how he could have been so wrong. It seemed Anduin hadn’t overheard anything; that Saurfang hadn’t _said_ anything. He had nearly exposed his own secret for fear of having already been discovered, and as a result overlooked the genuine distress from the prince that had nothing at all to do with him. Fortunately, in the end it had all worked out for the better. Anduin had joined them inside, and he seemed, if not happy, at least _happier_.

Moira had been all but glued to Anduin’s side since then, riding abreast of first Saurfang and Anduin. Eventually she had ridden with only Anduin, once Saurfang gave up staying with him for the remainder of their outing. He had seen the two of them talking, but could not make out what was said. Muradin had done a fine job of keeping him busy otherwise. When at last the queen-regent seemed to have had her fill of the prince’s time, Saurfang excuse himself and directed his surly mount to drop back into step with Anduin’s more well-behaved ram once more.

“I was beginning to wonder if you found Muradin’s company more interesting than mine,” Anduin teased amiably.

“I could ask the same of you.”

Anduin was quiet for a moment. He pursed his lips and readjusted his gloves, doing everything, it seemed, to postpone his reply. At last he said, “Moira and I had… matters to discuss. I thought it best not to wait until we had returned to the city.”

“Are these matters I should know of?” Saurfang asked. He was wary of Anduin’s rapid-fire diplomacy after the agreement he’d made with Tyrande Whisperwind. Grateful as he was, he would prefer to be made aware of such dealings _beforehand_.

But Anduin shook his head. “No. Well,” he paused and took a deep breath. “I suppose you’ll know soon enough, anyway. I might as well tell you myself. I’ve arranged to have separate rooms, in the Mystic Ward.” He glanced up at Saurfang from the corner of his eye, and it was clear he expected the worst. “I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

“Offend me?” The pure relief Saurfang felt at the news was almost powerful enough to carry him back to Ironforge all on its own. He fought to keep from letting it show, however, knowing Anduin _would_ likely take such a reaction for an insult. “Your Highness, if you would feel more comfortable in—” he hesitated, “—cooler accommodations, I won’t hold that against you.” He knew it was more than the heat, of course, but perhaps Anduin would accept that he didn’t. Perhaps they could go on as they were, and pretend it was only the Forge that had forced the prince’s hand in the matter.

“I am grateful,” Anduin said. He cleared his throat. “If… you would prefer cooler rooms as well—”

“I am accustomed to the heat,” Saurfang said brusquely.

Perhaps a bit too brusque, for Anduin’s shoulders slumped and he looked away. “Oh,” he said quietly, “of course.”

They rode in silence after that, with only the wild snorting of Saurfang’s mount to punctuate the endless crunch of snow. The beast threw its head and sidestepped into Anduin’s, and the white ram danced nimbly into the snow beside the road. There was little Saurfang could do to control his mount; it had calmed at some point, as Anduin predicted, but never truly settled down. At all times there was a dangerous tension in its body, as though it was only waiting for the right opportunity to break loose and run, or wreak havoc as instinct demanded. If he had not been riding atop the beast, Saurfang might have appreciated its unbreakable spirit.

He caught sight of Anduin rubbing his forearms and frowned. “Are you cold?” he asked. He was already halfway to removing his fur cape when Anduin held up a hand to stop him.

“Yes,” Anduin said, “but that isn’t the problem.” He shook his head. “Not exactly. Old injuries, that’s all. I can ignore it most times, but we’ve been out in the cold for hours now.” Almost as if he was reassuring himself, he added, “I’ll be fine once we return to Ironforge.”

The explanation only further confused Saurfang, however. Injuries? The prince of Stormwind was no soldier, and he had lived a life of relative ease within a well-guarded keep. When had he ever been—

He drew in a sharp breath that instantly reminded him of the bitter cold surrounding them. Of course. Garrosh Hellscream. Saurfang abruptly recalled the prince’s testimony as the collected witnesses to the orc’s crimes sat together in the temple of the tiger celestial, Xuen. Anduin had not merely described the injuries he sustained from the destruction of the Divine Bell, but been made to relive them all over again, the memory put on display for all present to see through the Vision of Time. Saurfang himself had watched, his face twisted into an ugly grimace. At the time his thoughts had been for himself; for his failure, and how he might have prevented some of the misery Garrosh had caused by simply killing him in Northrend, as he’d often considered.

Now, watching Anduin rub at his arms and push the heel of his palm across his thigh in an attempt to mitigate his pain, he wished he had.

“Take this.” He removed the cape and reached out to spread it across Anduin’s lap. The ram beneath him shifted in protest and pulled away from Anduin’s mount.

“Warchief, I’m—”

But Saurfang wasn’t interested in his polite refusal. “You are my responsibility,” he said. Hastening to add, “Your father made that much clear, and I won’t hear his complaints that I’ve mistreated you.”

“I hardly think my father might blame you for this.”

Oh, but he would. What’s more, Saurfang blamed _himself_. He may not have struck the bell with his own hand, but he had helped put Garrosh on the path that brought him to that ledge in Kun-Lai. And although he was not alone in that error, he was the only one present who could attempt to make amends. He was the one mated to the young man who had nearly died trying to correct that mistake.

Anduin ducked his head in thanks, and pulled the cape closer around his waist. “I was never troubled by the cold before,” he said. “It’s a shame it causes me such discomfort now. Dun Morogh is truly beautiful, and I think I might appreciate it more if not for that.”

Saurfang squinted against the blinding white of the fallen snow and frowned. He was not so fond of the cold himself, and felt no regret on that score. Not only because he had spent his life in the balmier climates of Gorgrond and later Durotar, either.

“You disagree?” Anduin asked.

Saurfang grunted and shifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I prefer… less treacherous ground beneath me.”

That drew a chuckle from Anduin. “It’s only snow, Warchief.”

But so much more lay in wait within the frozen ground, and Saurfang knew that all too well. He had no desire to face his own demons, however, not today, and so he only hummed thoughtfully. The ram snorted and stomped and Saurfang pulled the reins tight to keep the beast under control. Eager to change the subject, he began to explain, “It snowed once, in Orgrimmar—”

The panicked bleat of Anduin’s ram and the prince’s accompanying shout brought him up short. The body of wiry hair and muscle beneath Saurfang lurched fiercely and threw itself sideways, crashing into the white ram and sending it off the path for a second time. Only Anduin’s mount did not right itself immediately, as it had before; they had come to a rise in the road, and a long slope stretched out below them. At the bottom, barely visible through the evergreen trees, the ground was dotted with boulders. As Saurfang watched, horrified, Anduin’s ram scrambled to keep its hooves on the path. But the snow was too compacted, too slippery; it fell end over end down the hill, and Anduin along with it.

“Anduin!” Saurfang shouted. He threw himself from his own mount and reached out, but it was too late. Anduin and the white ram disappeared in a cloud of snow kicked up by their descent, obscured by the trees until at last there was no sound at all, and no sign of where either had gone. Saurfang had not yet taken a breath to call out a second time when he heard another shout and the all-too-familiar sound of ice shattering.

“Where is he?!” Moira called out as she sped toward him.

Saurfang didn’t answer. There was no time. He pitched himself down the hill, running against the pull of the earth as each step threatened to bring him to his knees. When he cleared the trees he spotted the hole in the ice, saw the white ram kicking desperately to pull itself from the frigid water, but found no sign of Anduin.

Without hesitating, he dove in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I told you guys this wasn't going to be a serious story with a lot of drama and I lied.


	7. A Hot Mess

_Air_.

He needed air.

Pain lanced through his skull and down the length of his spine, and everything was cold. Beyond cold. _Biting_. The freezing water was clawing at his skin like a ravenous beast.

Anduin’s shoulder hit something hard and he realized it was ice. Not broken by his fall, but solid, unyielding. He knew he must have slipped beneath the frozen surface of the lake, but in the billowing silt and broken light he couldn’t see his way to the hole he and the ram had gone through. The water growled around him, filling his ears, churned up by the ram’s frantic kicking and his own thrashing, flailing limbs. He felt heavy. He needed air, _now_.

Something solid hit his chest and then immediately returned again, this time grasping the front of his coat and hauling him through the water. He didn’t know where he was going, if he would be able to breathe there. It was getting hard to think beyond the panic.

When his head breached the surface he dragged in a breath that seared his throat like cold fire. He could hear shouting, feel the movement as he was pulled backwards through the water, but it was chaos and he couldn’t focus on any of it. All he could think of was breathing. _One breath in, another. Now breathe out. It’s alright, there’s more air._

He hadn’t touched the bottom of the lake; the arms that held him were so high up that his knees dragged the surface until, together with his rescuer, he landed on the pebble-strewn shore. The clack of the stones beneath them was the first sound he registered that no longer seemed muffled and distant. The second was the heavy panting above his head.

The third was Saurfang’s voice.

“Say something!”

Anduin was turned—he was in Saurfang’s arms, he realized belatedly—so that he could see the drawn face of the orc warchief. Belying the almost angry tone of his order, there was nothing but fear in his eyes.

“You m—may have had a point about—snow,” he said. The powerful shiver that seized him at that moment was almost as bad as the frigid water had been, and twice as unforgiving. It hurt deep in his bones, so deep he felt as though he was being drawn into himself, and his jaw clenched tight enough to make his teeth ache.

Saurfang answered by pulling Anduin close against him, chasing away some of the chill with his own warmth. But despite the steam that curled off his skin in the wintery air, it still wasn’t enough. Anduin couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering, or dismiss the pain that held him fast, like it had fangs in his every muscle and tendon.

“Let me.” It was Moira, somewhere over Anduin’s shoulder, where he couldn’t see. He felt small hands on him, and then a welcome flood of relief and warmth filled his body. The shivering continued, but the discomfort, the deep hurt, eased enough for him to go slack in Saurfang’s arms.

He was lifted, and expected the warchief would bear him to a ram, but that didn’t appear to be his plan. Instead he held Anduin with his legs draped across one forearm, his back braced by the other. His head was tucked against Saurfang’s chest. The leather tunic was warming slowly beneath his cheek.

“Yer mount’s gone, I’m afraid,” Muradin said to Saurfang. “Can’t say as I’m sad tae see it go.”

Saurfang only grunted in reply, and Anduin liked to think he knew the man well enough to guess what he was thinking. If he was right, and he would have placed a hefty wager that he was, it had something to do with hunting down the dark gray ram and serving it for dinner.

Moira appeared in Anduin’s line of sight carrying the black fur cape. One of the clasps had come loose, and the silver ram’s head hung from the chain, dripping water into the snow. She tossed it over the back of Anduin’s white ram. The beast was similarly waterlogged, but ice was beginning to form on its fur. While he watched, Moira removed her own cloak and added it to the makeshift blanket formed by the fur cape, covering the ram’s haunches. Muradin did the same. Moira then tied a lead from the white ram to her saddle.

“Yer set on carrying him, then?” Muradin asked. By his tone Anduin guessed he already knew the answer. When he saw Saurfang nod he couldn’t help but smile—a shaky, half-frozen smile that could have easily passed for more pain, he was certain.

He tried to tell himself that it made sense; the white ram was too wet to bear a rider already nearly frozen to his core. The beast needed to be warmed, not ridden. Anduin needed warmth himself, and body warmth was best. Saurfang was like a furnace in the cold, even if Anduin caught the occasional twitch and shudder of discomfort. He had no mount to bear him back to Ironforge, he was the only one who could carry Anduin, and it would benefit them both. It was simply common sense.

But despite that, and despite having almost died only a few minutes earlier, there was a small, hopeful part of Anduin that liked to think Saurfang was carrying him, warming him, because he cared. Because he was more than just his warchief. Because he was his mate.

That was a fantasy, though. Reality told a different story.

Saurfang’s mouth was set in a grimace around his fangs, and his generous brow was furrowed so deeply it shadowed his eyes. He was unhappy, and why shouldn’t he be? Anduin might have drowned, and there was no question what would have happened then. Regardless of any assurances offered by Moira and Muradin that it wasn’t Saurfang’s doing, or the result of his negligence, Anduin’s father would have gone to war. War, for one life.

And if Saurfang had been the one to die, instead? If he had gone beneath the ice to rescue Anduin and never emerged? Likely the same outcome, only for an entirely different reason. The warchief of the Horde dying in the company of two well-known Alliance leaders and the crown prince of Stormwind was almost as good as an assassination.

The blame for what had actually happened didn’t lay with Saurfang’s ram; the beast was only acting on instinct. Anduin should have been more cautious. If he had been aware of his surroundings, if he hadn’t been so distracted by his juvenile infatuation and absorbed in his own selfish thoughts, he would have realized the danger of riding abreast on such a narrow road. He had put himself at risk, and in doing so jeopardized more than just his own life. It was unacceptable, and could not be allowed to happen again.

It was tempting to lie against Saurfang’s shoulder, to let the warmth seep through his skin. Instead Anduin lifted his head and tucked his chin against his own chest. He crossed his arms and did his best not to let himself become carried away in daydreams about the warchief.

  
“Any word on my ram?” Anduin asked. He was in his new bed in the Mystic Ward, being tended to by Moira’s servants and healers as needed. Moira herself was sitting in a small, cushioned chair at his bedside.

“Aye, all’s well,” she assured him. “We’ve even located the warchief’s blasted demon ram, for all the good it’ll do. May as well let it remain wild.”

“You should—” Anduin winced and settled himself back further into the bed. “You shouldn’t blame the beast, Moira,” he said. “I wasn’t paying attention. It was my fault.”

She scoffed. “Had a feeling you might say something silly like that. I’ll not bother arguing with you about it, I wager you know what I’d have to say on the matter. You’re alright, then?”

“My head hurts.”

She nodded and said, “Aye, I imagine it might. You had a nasty head wound coming out of that lake, whether from the ice or the kicking of that white ram I can’t say. I healed it, ‘fore Warchief Saurfang carried you back. Suspect some pain might linger for a bit, regardless.”

At the memory of his mate’s arms around him, warming him and ushering him to warmth and safety, Anduin felt his skin begin to heat. He looked down at his hands and swallowed back the sudden dryness in his throat. “I’m sure he’s angry I’ve caused such a problem.”

“Angry?” By her tone, it was difficult to tell if Moira was baffled or offended. She shook her head until her red braids swayed at her back. “I’ll listen to a great deal from you on account of our friendship, but not that. He’s got no cause to be angry, and I’ve seen no sign of it, either.”

“I should have—”

“That’s that,” she said firmly.

Anduin correctly took it for an end to the matter. It had been a long time since he’d been so chastised, but he accepted it, if for no other reason than he knew he probably deserved it. Instead of arguing he huffed a sigh and let his head fall back against the plush pillows. His own hair was loose, and had dried since his unplanned dip into the lake. He felt the ends brushing his bare shoulders. It reminded him of the other skin his own had been in contact with only recently. Hot, green skin that felt like iron. “He hasn’t come to see me,” he said quietly.

“I suspect he’s not keen to bother you.”

“Even to see how I’m doing?”

Moira smirked. “My uncle insisted on informing the king of your mishap—”

“Moira, no, I’m not a child!” Anduin insisted. He sat up and tried to throw the blanket aside. “I’m a grown man, I have a husband—a mate,” he quickly corrected. “I won’t have my father summoned on my behalf whenever something happens!”

Moira was urging him back down, but Anduin wasn’t so weak that he couldn’t fend her off. He made it as far as swinging his legs over the side of the bed before she finally convinced him to listen.

“Aye, Anduin, aye!” she shouted over his own protests. “You’re right, and you’ve every reason to be angered by the very notion, of course. I explained as much to my uncle, and as such he’s made no move to send word to Stormwind. I didn’t tell you thinking you’d get yourself in ruch a state over it.”

Then what did it have to do with Saurfang’s absence? If he had not been waylaid by Anduin’s father, what was keeping the warchief away? Anduin nearly asked as much, but Moira held up a hand to silence him before he could speak. “It was myself and the warchief both who talked sense into him. Saurfang’s been keeping him busy since, afraid he might get it in his head to send a messenger to Stormwind anyway.”

Anduin gave that some thought. He was pleased, of course; both because of Saurfang and Moira’s consideration and the success of their efforts. But he was also practical enough to understand that the warchief had just as much to lose if Anduin’s father was involved. Even without the threat of war, they both knew what sort of trouble this incident could cause. What it might mean for the future.

“You should tell him yourself,” came Moira’s very un-subtle suggestion.

“When the time is right,” Anduin said. “My marriage to the warchief is still a bit of an open wound for him.”

Moira hummed thoughtfully and nodded. “Were I to send my Dagran to Mulgore, or Quel’Thalas, I imagine I might spend a great deal of my time sick with worry. You have the much easier end of the deal, Anduin.”

He wanted to argue. Moira had never lived with Saurfang. She had never faced the prospect of marriage to someone she adored, whom she could never have.

He made a face entirely for the benefit of his own sentimental nonsense. He didn’t quite _adore_ Saurfang, he just—well, it was beginning to feel that way. The incident at the lake had not helped matters at all, either. If not for that, and if not for the way Saurfang had so carefully carried him back to the city, Anduin might not have been so bothered by his conspicuous absence since.

“Would you like me to send for him?” Moira asked. She seemed to know exactly what it was that weighed so heavily on Anduin’s mind. And why shouldn’t she? They had discussed his letters during their ride; she knew his feelings and his fears.

Anduin shook his head. “No.”

“And if he should seek you on his own?”

He blinked. She meant that he could refuse Saurfang’s visit, of course. He simply didn’t understand why she thought he might. “He is welcome to, of course.”

She nodded, but slowly, as though it wasn’t his answer that she was responding to, but something else entirely. “Doing nothing is often the most difficult kindness,” she sighed. “I’ve every confidence in you both.”

Anduin waited for an explanation, but it seemed none was forthcoming. “Moira?” he prompted.

She only reached out and gave him a pat on the arm as she stood. “Settle in, now. Get some rest. I’ll see to it you’re brought dinner,” she paused. “And dessert.”

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to dine with you and Muradin this evening,” Anduin said before she left.

Moira paused in the doorway. A wicked smile curled her red lips. “Oh, you might save that apology for your mate,” she said. “We’ll be entertaining him ourselves tonight.”

Anduin feigned a wince. “Good luck to everyone, in that case.”

She laughed. “Aye.”

  
It was late when the last of the servants finally left Anduin in peace, having concluded their endless fussing over his comfort, his health, and every other conceivable detail. He was fine, really. Moira had healed the minor head wound, and some rest and a good meal had revitalized him and left him in a far better state than he’d started. He was hardly even tired.

What he _was,_ however, was frustrated. It was nearly midnight, and Saurfang had not come to see him. Had not even sent someone to ask him how he was feeling. Moira said that she and Muradin would be dining with the warchief, but it was long past the point when that meal should have ended. It seemed Saurfang simply had no interest in Anduin’s condition since their return to the city. That was more than enough evidence to suggest he was actually angry, despite Moira’s insistence to the contrary.

So, with a sullen huff, Anduin settled in for a night of what would likely be restless slumber.

Earlier in the evening, after they had taken away what remained of his dinner-in-bed, one of the servants had brought him a blanket, wrapped tightly around a heated waterskin. Now it lay beside Anduin’s head on the bed, warming him. He smiled at the thought that this time, as he was in the Mystic Ward and far removed from the Forge, the heat was welcome, rather than an insufferable burden. It was rather nice, in fact. The warmth that radiated from within the bundle reminded Anduin of Saurfang’s skin, though it was absent the hard muscles that shifted and tightened as the warchief moved. The scent of leather and metal, sweat, and the scars that marked his exposed green flesh. But if he closed his eyes, if he let his mind wander, Anduin could still remember it all.

Inevitably, such thoughts had a noticeable effect on him, and he bit his lip to stifle a groan. He was alone, and would remain alone until morning. Surely there was no harm in a _little_ indulgence? In relieving himself of the burden where it could not possibly cause any problems… 

Anduin’s hand slipped beneath the heavy blankets, gliding over his abdomen. He took himself in hand and gave a firm stroke, and another, and pressed his face into the heat beside him. He imagined touching himself while lying at Saurfang’s side, listening to that thundering heartbeat as he stroked in time to its rhythm. What would it feel like, he wondered, to arch his body against the warchief’s? To feel the heat and the sweat on that skin against his own?

Outside of his fantasy he was gasping, sweat beaded on his brow. He threw off the blankets and bucked his hips against nothing. How he wished there was something—_someone—_there instead. Daring just enough to let his better judgment slip, Anduin quietly gasped, “_Warchief!_”

There was a sudden knock at the door. The sound of it was loud enough to nearly startle Anduin out of the bed. He yelped and fell onto his back again, blindly scrabbling for the blankets.

“Your Highness?” he heard a coarse and agonizingly familiar voice call out. Saurfang was standing outside.

Anduin’s heart might have burst, but he didn’t think there was enough blood pumping through it at that moment to matter. “Just—just a moment!” he shouted. He hastily rearranged the blankets over himself, only to find that they did a poor job of covering what parts of him evidently had no intention of cooperating in his little farce.

A pillow across his lap did the job well enough. He gave it a pat, shivered at the indirect effect it had on his cock, and cleared his throat. “Come in!” he called.

Saurfang entered the room, and Anduin was grateful for the pillow; the warchief towered over him, all strength and power, and it brought to mind all of those things Anduin found most appealing about the man. Rather sharply, too. He felt a pulse of arousal in his groin, and steadfastly ignored it. Tried to.

“I hope I did not wake you,” Saurfang said. “Our hosts have ideas of entertaining that I find…” He shook his head. “Exhausting.”

Had he not been valiantly struggling to bring his own body under control, Anduin might have appreciated Saurfang’s honesty. The implication of it was actually a little uplifting. But rather than fading in the face of certain humiliation, Anduin’s arousal was only _growing_. Literally and figuratively, much to his horror. Keeping his hands atop the pillow, he suggested, “If you’re tired, Warchief, there’s no need to stay here. I’m feeling much better than I was earlier, and surely you could use the sleep after today.”

But Saurfang shook his head. “My fatigue is in the mind, Prince Anduin. It took me too long to come here.”

Despite his predicament, Anduin managed a smile. “It’s appreciated.”

“Well,” Saurfang said, “my duty to you requires it.”

Anduin tried to ignore the way those words felt like the echo of a punch to the chest. As it was, they didn’t even have the good grace to douse the fire in him. “Of course,” he answered evenly. “And… I appreciate that you and Moira kept Muradin from involving my father. This is not his concern.”

“I highly doubt the king would agree.”

“No, he would not. But I am a man and you are—” _my mate,_ “—warchief of the Horde. Neither of those things requires fetching my father for every minor mishap.”

Saurfang laughed, and the sound of it, the deep rumble that shook his chest, was like a shot of lust right to Anduin’s core. He panted once, and quickly snapped his mouth shut when he caught himself doing it.

“Do you truly believe your father would have come here, to Ironforge?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it,” Anduin pointed out.

Saurfang rubbed his chin with his thick fingers. Anduin watched, captivated, and tried not to think of what else those fingers might touch. Where they might go…

“Highness?” Saurfang asked. “Are you certain you’re feeling well?” He made to reach for Anduin’s forehead, but stopped himself before his fingers could make contact. A small miracle. “You’re sweating, and your skin is flushed.”

Anduin swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat. “I—well,” he began.

Saurfang started toward the door. “I’ll fetch the healer.”

“No!” Anduin tried to reach out, but it displaced the pillow, and he quickly pressed it back into place against his groin. Unfortunately, it had the same effect as before, and he whimpered.

“You’re not well,” Saurfang insisted.

“I’m fine, I’m—please, don’t. I don’t want to be more of a burden than I have already. I’m certain I’ll be well by morning.”

His excuse didn’t seem to appease the warchief, however. He shook his head. “It could be worse in the morning.”

_It often is,_ Anduin thought wryly. “I assure you, it’s nothing to worry about. But if you are concerned, I _am_ a healer myself,” he reminded Saurfang.

“You were injured, and you need rest.”

For some reason this wasn’t doing anything to calm his body. Anduin was starting to feel desperate. “I’ve been resting all day,” he said, trying to plead for some kind of reprieve from what would surely be the worst humiliation he had ever suffered.

But Saurfang seemed to have made up his mind; he opened the door, and Anduin heard him speak to someone before he ducked back inside. “You’re stubborn, Prince Anduin, but so am I,” he said with a smirk.

That didn’t help. That didn’t help _at all_. Anduin groaned and let his head fall back against the pillows.

“Perhaps you should remove the blankets if you’re too warm. If you have a fever—”

Anduin made a distressed sound and clutched the blankets closer. He regretted it almost immediately; Saurfang pulled back as though burned, clearly distraught by Anduin’s reaction. He took another step away from the bed just as Moira came bustling into the room, mid-rant.

“—own healers should know better than to let him be when he’s taken ill!” She stopped before the bed. “Anduin! How do you feel?”

It was a far less composed, far more brusque and breathless Moira than he was accustomed to, and at first Anduin couldn’t think of how to answer. “I—”

“He has a fever,” Saurfang helpfully supplied. He was no longer looking at Anduin, but instead seemed intent on examining the stone floor.

Moira put her hands on her hips. “Aye, I can see it now.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Anduin insisted. At least Moira’s boisterous presence was working to ease the ache between his legs. Though, Saurfang’s reaction to his earlier outburst played a significant role as well. He couldn’t understand what had so troubled the warchief about it, but Moira’s bustling about left him no time to think.

“Let me put hands on you,” she said, “that’ll—”

“No, please,” Anduin said weakly, “it’s really nothing!” He was starting to feel as though he might actually expire from the sheer humiliation of it all. Moira came closer, and he tried to gently block her small hands. It wasn’t until she leaned in to peer into his eyes that something seemed to fall into place. She froze, and her mouth fell open.

“Oh,” she said. And then, making it painfully clear she had realized _exactly_ what the problem was, “_Oh!_”

Anduin buried his face in his hands.

Moira shot back like she was rocket-propelled, hands tucked firmly at her sides. “I—” She cleared her throat. “Well. Warchief, this might take a moment.” She turned and looked up at Saurfang, who was, blessedly, examining something on the wall, rather than watching the scene unfolding behind him. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping outside.”

Saurfang turned and nodded, and left without a word. He seemed eager to escape, in fact, and Anduin tried not to worry that he might have come to the same realization as Moira.

“Anduin…” she began, wringing her hands.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

She seemed like she might laugh. He prayed she wouldn’t, as he didn’t think his dignity could take another hit so soon. “You’re apologizing to me?” she asked incredulously.

“This isn’t exactly how I imagined this evening going.”

“Aye, I’ll second that,” she said. “You’re truly well, then? It’s only…” She trailed off, making a vague gesture he understood only too well.

“Apart from a powerful urge to jump into the Forge, or back in that lake, yes,” he answered.

Moira did laugh then, but it wasn’t at him, and so he was able to chuckle along with her. “It’s not so bad as that,” she said.

Anduin let his shoulders slump. “You weren’t here for the first ten minutes. He wouldn’t _leave,_ Moira.”

“Oh, aye, that’s—well.” She coughed into her hand. “You know, it might be time to speak up about how you feel. Before it’s too late, and he finds out for himself in some way you’d not prefer.”

He shook his head. “Not after this.” Not after seeing Saurfang’s face when he drew back from Anduin’s side. As much as he feared the exposure of his secret, he knew it had been something else. Now that he was gone, it would be next to impossible to find out what.

Moira sighed. “I won’t push you,” she said, “and I certainly won’t interfere. But I think you’ve got yourself worried over nothing.”

“Thank you, Moira. If you don’t mind, though…?”

She started and threw her hands up, exclaiming, “Of course! I’ll leave you to handle the rest yourself now, and—” She abruptly froze in place, face scrunched in an uncomfortable wince.

“Perhaps not the best choice of words,” Anduin said.

“No, perhaps not.”

  
Anduin was up and about the next morning, true to his word. He might have pushed himself a bit harder than his aching muscles would have liked, and perhaps he could have called upon the Light to ease some of that strain, but it hardly seemed necessary. A healthy reminder of his own limitations might do him some good, after all. Especially in light of the prior evening’s events.

Moira had not made eye contact with him more than twice throughout the entirety of breakfast. He made a note to speak with her about that later, when there weren’t so many ears to overhear their exchange. Saurfang seemed even less willing to acknowledge Anduin’s presence. In fact, he hadn’t said a single word to the prince beyond a faint grunt to answer Anduin’s pleasant “Good morning, Warchief.”

All in all it was a rather unhappy morning.

They parted ways shortly after breakfast. Anduin and Saurfang were left more or less to their own devices while Moira tended to council matters, and that prospect was daunting for a number of reasons. Not least of all because, while Saurfang almost certainly hadn’t caught on to the truth the night before, Anduin still had to live with the very clear memory of his own humiliation regardless. He couldn’t seem to stop _blushing_. It wasn’t as though that was the first time he had brought himself off thinking of the orc warchief, but it was certainly the first time Saurfang had _been there_ for any part of it. Being on the other side of a wall in Grommash Hold was usually a powerful enough aphrodisiac that Anduin didn’t need much else besides his imagination. Now he feared the association in his mind might lead him to do or say something foolish. Or, Light forbid, it might bring about an unexpected reaction when he couldn’t hide it.

That wasn’t a concern he’d had to worry about in some years, and he was happy _not_ to ever experience it again if he could help it.

But nor could he simply abandon the warchief, his mate, in Ironforge. They were bound together not only by ceremony, but common task, and as much as he would have liked to, he could not shirk that responsibility.

Today was a meeting with the foreman responsible for the Great Forge’s operation and care. The man who was, apart from the Three Hammers themselves, perhaps the single most important person in all of Ironforge. Forgemaster Myolor Sunderfury. When Anduin had explained the forgemaster’s position to Saurfang, the warchief had remarked only that he “Sounds like a blood elf.”

Anduin hadn’t really known what to say to that, and so he’d said nothing.

When they arrived at the Forge, Anduin already sweating through his shirt, they found themselves surrounded by a flurry of activity. Dwarven blacksmiths, miners, and other tradesmen were hurrying about, too busy to mind the strangers in the midst. Even if one of those strangers was a rather tall, rather broad green orc. One did stumble midstep, and as he regained his momentum he exclaimed something in dwarvish that Anduin didn’t understand. It seemed Saurfang wasn’t familiar with the term, either.

But the forgemaster was nowhere to be found. The layout of the Great Forge was such that, even standing all the way at one end, it was possible to see clear to the other side. And none of the dwarves present were tall enough to block either Anduin’s view or Saurfang’s.

“I suppose he’s been delayed,” Anduin remarked with a slight shrug.

Saurfang answered with a hum that sounded rather skeptical to Anduin. He ignored it, and waited silently at the warchief’s side.

Watching the work carried out around the Forge was fascinating, as it had been when Anduin was thirteen, excited to be away from home by himself for the first time. He was quickly swept away by the ringing of the hammers, the satisfying hiss of quenched steel. When he felt a nudge at his arm it was almost a shock. He blinked and looked up at Saurfang, who pointed to the other end of the Forge.

The forgemaster had finally appeared. He was making his way between the workstations, apparently inspecting each craftsman’s product.

Saurfang didn’t wait for Anduin; he set his shoulders and marched forth, wading into the sea of workers as they bustled about. Anduin shook the last of his trance and hurried after. He reached the warchief’s side just as he inclined his head and said, “Forgemaster Sunderfury.”

“I go by Keeper,” Sunderfury said brusquely, without looking up from the blade he was presently inspecting. He handed it back to the smith and moved on to the next station.

Anduin exchanged a glance with Saurfang.

“Keeper Sunderfury,” Anduin said, “Queen-Regent Moira felt it best if we met with you to discuss Orgrimmar’s future use of the Forge.” He gave the man the benefit of the doubt, adding, “It seems you’re rather busy, however. If a later meeting would be better, we will be happy to reschedule.” He glanced at Saurfang from the corner of his eye, and found the orc was scowling.

“Nae any busier than every other day, Yer Highness,” Sunderfury said. He finally looked up, smiling at Anduin beneath his thick beard. “It’s a pleasure tae see ye return to our fair city. Even under such circumstances.”

Oh no. This was not going to go well.

Saurfang stepped up beside Anduin, and there was no question he was furious. “Perhaps you did not note the time, _Keeper,_” he said. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl, and even the other craftsmen seemed to take note of it. Work around them abruptly slowed, and the rhythmic sounds of the Forge seemed less soothing than they had only a few minutes ago.

“Aye, I learnt to tell it well enough,” Sunderfury muttered. He peered into the end of the metal tube in his hands before handing it back to another dwarf. “Rifling’s warped,” he said, “melt it down an’ start again.”

Anduin could see Saurfang’s jaw tightening. His fingers curled into fists. “So, your absence was intentional, then?” he demanded.

Sunderfury finally looked up, meeting Saurfang’s eye for the first time. “I saw no need tae hurry.”

If Anduin hadn’t stepped in at that moment, he was certain Saurfang might have erupted in a rage to rival the Great Forge itself. “It seems we’re drawing a bit too much attention,” he said quietly to both men. “I’m certain no one wishes to interrupt the important work taking place here. Perhaps, Keeper Sunderfury, we could relocate this discussion to your office?”

Sunderfury and Saurfang stared at one another for a moment longer, and then the keeper nodded. He brushed past Saurfang, motioning to Anduin to follow. “This way,” he said.

Among the shops that dotted the inner ring of Ironforge were a handful of homes and offices, mostly tradespeople with cause to be located so close to the Forge. Sunderfury led them up a relatively short flight of stairs to his second-story office. Like every building in the inner ring, it overlooked the slag pits. It also had an unobstructed view of the Great Anvil in the center.

Sunderfury crossed the threshold and offered Anduin a seat—but _only_ Anduin. He sat in his own chair behind an appropriately dwarf-sized desk and scowled at Saurfang. “I’ll not sully the Forge for the likes o’ some barbaric orc, so spare me yer snarlin’ an’ tell the Queen-Regent she’ll have tae find another way.”

Anduin’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t expected quite so much vitriol the moment they were behind closed doors. “Keeper Sunderfury—!”

“Lad, I’ve great respect fer King Varian an’ yerself, but fer me life I cannae fathom why he might agree tae this ludicrous venture. Sure as the Great Forge burns, that brute,” he said, pointing to Saurfang, “will turn on us all, an’ I won’t be party tae bolsterin’ their defenses so as they might withstand the good Light’s justice when that time comes.”

Anduin didn’t need to see Saurfang to know he was seething. He stood and placed himself between the two men, his back to the warchief. It was clear that Keeper Sunderfury had no intention of allowing Orgrimmar to make use of the Forge, despite the agreement struck with the Three Hammers. Nor did Anduin sense that anything he might say would change the gruff old smith’s mind. Still, he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t try. After all, reason had worked on Tyrande, and she had a _much_ longer history with orcs than this one dwarf.

“I would urge you to reconsider,” he said. “The Council of Three Hammers has voted unanimously on this matter, and the High King himself not only welcomed Warchief Saurfang to the Eastern Kingdoms, but escorted us on our journey to Ironforge personally. You are not simply defying my mate with this decision—” he pointedly turned his head to glance at Saurfang, “—but the king and the entire council as well. A significantly louder statement than I believe you might have intended to make.”

“Aye, an’ I ken I’ll be stripped o’ me duties fer it, too. But I’ll not be the one tae do it.”

“You risk a great deal more than your _duties_ if you continue to speak to me in such a manner, Keeper Sunderfury,” Saurfang growled dangerously.

“It’s good I’ve been speakin’ tae His Highness, in that case,” Sunderfury bit back.

“You stinking—”

“Warchief!” Anduin shouted over his shoulder. “Please, don’t make this any worse than it is!”

“I imagine that justice I spoke of will come a mite easier with a man such as yerself leadin’ the Horde,” Sunderfury sneered. “Hidin’ behind a lad with more honor than a green savage like yerself will ever know.”

Anduin felt Saurfang push against his back, and only for the sake of the prince standing between them did the warchief stay where he was. At least, Anduin _hoped_ he was enough. “We should leave,” he said, eyeing Sunderfury, but speaking to Saurfang. “We’ll speak to Moira.”

“Aye, Prince Anduin. Let her know my word on the matter. And as we’ll likely nae meet again, I wish ye all the luck and prosperity one such as yerself deserves.” His dark scowl moved to Saurfang, and he sneered. “But I’ll also wish for yer safe return to yer peoples’ home, where ye belong. Pray the Light keep ye safe from this animal’s hands until such time.”

Anduin didn’t answer his well-wishes, such as they were. His stomach churned at the thought of even acknowledging them.

He turned and found himself face to face with the wall of muscle that was Saurfang’s chest. His hands pushed gently against the warchief’s tabard, testing his resistance. It felt like trying to move the mountain around them. “Please,” he said quietly. “Don’t make him right.”

Saurfang continued to resist, and Anduin felt his broad chest heaving beneath his palms, the fabric of his tabard shifting with each breath. It was a miracle he hadn’t snapped already. Anduin could hardly imagine how a man like Saurfang, a man so proud and utterly devoted to duty and honor, had managed to hold himself back as long as he had. If not for Anduin’s sake, then he imagined it was only because they both knew the guards could not be trusted to intervene in a way that would avoid starting a war.

But, for Anduin’s part, he knew which one he wanted to believe it was.

He whispered, “For me. _Please_.”

All at once the tension in Saurfang’s body eased, and he stood straight. He was still breathing hard, but he took a step back. Anduin went with him. “Fortunate for you, dwarf, that I _have_ honor,” he said. The thread of rage that simmered beneath the surface had not dissipated, but there was something else, now. Something Anduin hoped was reason. “You should thank the prince for saving your miserable life.”

“Let’s go, please,” Anduin insisted. He didn’t turn to see if Sunderfury was watching. He no longer cared what vicious things the Great Forge’s keeper might have to say.

Saurfang stepped aside so that Anduin could pass through the door before him; a gesture of respect. One which Anduin answered by not looking back, not hesitating, trusting that the warchief would follow him.

He hadn’t realized how fast his own heart was beating until he was away from the heavy silence of Sunderfury’s office. Now he felt as though he was trapped within a drum, bombarded by the pounding in his head. He needed to get away from the heat of the Forge.

Of all the unfortunate events that had taken place since their arrival in Ironforge, _this_ was perhaps the worst. Anduin only hoped it could be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction—although perhaps Sunderfury himself was a loss regardless of any compromise they might make.

He had never expected every diplomatic venture between the Horde and the Alliance to be a success, but this was far more significant than a simple trade of goods and services; this was the first attempt by the Alliance to reach out to the Horde, rather than the other way around. It demanded cooperation from both sides, but a show of good faith by the Alliance was paramount. It was also an extremely high profile venture. If this exchange failed, it might mean more than the loss of Anduin’s privileges as Saurfang’s mate. What little trust existed following the Legion’s defeat would be damaged, possibly even irreparably.

If the Horde could not trust the Alliance once, they would hesitate before trusting them again. They had walked this same path before. He knew where it would lead them.

Where it would leave _him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Myolor Sunderfury, who has all of one line of dialogue in the game when you click on him.
> 
> Additionally, I may be slow to respond to comments over the next few days. Please don't think you're being snubbed, I still see them and I am immensely grateful, especially with all the work I have to do right now! You guys are awesome.


	8. Simple Solutions for (Needlessly) Complex Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how many people are still interested in reading this story, but I do intend to finish it.

The queen-regent was furious, and Saurfang couldn’t have been more pleased.

“Of course he’s wrong,” Anduin argued, “but he’s taking a stand for what he feels is right. As positive as our reception has been so far, I have to believe there are others who feel the same way he does.”

“I’ll not suffer a blacksmith to disobey a command from his council!” Moira shouted. The doors to the High Seat were closed, leaving Saurfang, Anduin, Moira, and Muradin to discuss the matter in private. The guards, though clearly unhappy about it, had been sent to wait outside.

“I am not suggesting you should.”

“I’ve known Myolor Sunderfury fer many a year,” Muradin interjected. He was stroking the tufted end of his beard, peering into the middle distance as he spoke. “He’s a might quick tae temper, but no more so than he’s any right tae be, what with all he’s suffered at the hands o’ the Horde.” He dipped his head apologetically in Saurfang’s direction. “No offense intended, Warchief.”

Saurfang had lost count of how many times he’d heard the same set of words uttered for his sake since their arrival in Ironforge. He shrugged it off as he had every other time.

His rage over Sunderfury’s refusal—the dwarf’s insolence in the face of a man who might otherwise kill him—had faded to something that now simmered just below the surface. Embers that could flare into a blaze at a moment’s notice. For the time being, he was content to let the dwarves handle their own. The prince’s insistence that he not make the matter worse was intended in good faith, and he appreciated the wisdom of it; his silence was his respect.

“I’m certain any action taken to punish Keeper Sunderfury will only further inflame tensions that must already exist here in Ironforge, even if we ourselves have not been subject to them until now,” Anduin said. “There has to be a way to deal with this that won’t send the wrong message.”

“Aye,” Moira said. Her eyes flashed with fury and her small hands gripped the arms of her seat, as though she might rend the metal with no more than the strength of her rage. “Banishment ought to send the message loud enough!”

“I’ll not agree tae banishment,” Muradin said with the sort of finality Saurfang might have expected from Varian Wrynn.

Moira whipped her head around to glare at him. “Falstad—”

“Isn’t here. An’ as fer Sunderfury, he’s served Ironforge loyally since yer father’s rule. Banishment is out of the question.”

Saurfang knew little of dwarven politics, and had never seen much of a reason to learn, but Anduin had made mention of the council’s short history often enough for him to understand that without a unanimous ruling, it was unlikely he would see his anger fully satisfied. And if the Horde would not be permitted to use the Forge, then Saurfang could not allow Ironforge to benefit from their resources. Even if he wished to do something so inadvisable, which he certainly did not, he was sure that doing so would swiftly see his head mounted on a pike over Orgrimmar’s main gate.

And Anduin’s along with it.

“There _must_ be a compromise that would satisfy everyone,” Anduin said. He was beginning to sound desperate.

If banishment was out of the question, then Saurfang was out of ideas. He was not interested in some soft human notion of negotiation with the spineless dwarf keeper. Nor could he concede to anything less than exactly what the Horde had outlined in their portion of the agreement. A compromise would have to come entirely from Ironforge’s end, and he did not know the dwarves well enough to guess how likely that might be under such circumstances.

He was considering saying as much when Moira spoke up. “He must be punished. If only—” she added, pausing to cast a quick glare in her uncle’s direction, “—for disobeying the council.”

“Aye,” Muradin agreed, nodding. “I’m given tae understand his position, but it won’t do tae have such disrespect go unanswered.”

“Then we should—”

“We should wait fer Falstad’s return, an’ allow the council tae handle the matter properly. In the manner we’ve set down.” He gave Moira a pointed look. “All of us.”

There was something in Muradin’s mention of Falstad Wildhammer that nagged at Saurfang; some potential there that none of them had yet considered.

“Forgive me for intruding on what _is_ a council matter,” Anduin said carefully, “but there really isn’t time, Muradin. Falstad won’t return from his mission to Kul Tiras for weeks, and word of this incident is sure to spread, if it hasn’t begun to already. The warchief and I understand, of course—” He hesitated at Saurfang’s obvious snort. “But I doubt the other Horde leaders and their people will feel the same. This will be seen as a slight. Hesitation on your part now could mean much greater problems later.”

“Rash action now—” Muradin began, only to be interrupted by Moira.

“It isn’t rash, it’s decisive!”

“Please,” Anduin insisted, “there is no need to shout.”

“If yer so keen to prevent a problem I suggest ye not seek one here, Niece.” Muradin shifted in his seat, grumbling to himself while Anduin and Moira looked on, frowning for what Saurfang assumed were very different reasons. “There’s a proper way tae handle such things.”

Anduin sighed heavily through his nose. “If we could calmly discuss the best options—”

“I may have a suggestion,” Saurfang interrupted. He would have preferred it hadn’t been Anduin speaking when he did, but there was little that could be done about it; neither Muradin nor Moira seemed in a mood to cede the floor.

The room fell silent, and three sets of eyes turned to him. Looking down upon the dwarves in their iron seats, he said, “Send him away.”

“As I’ve told ye both, Warchief,” Muradin began tightly.

“That’s precisely what I’d like to do!” Moira exclaimed.

Anduin’s face fell just enough for Saurfang to see that he was clearly disappointed by what he took to be an unreasonable response to the dwarf’s offense. It would be gratifying to show him how mistaken he was, though a small part of Saurfang was aware that it was not for his own sake, but because he wanted Anduin to think better of him.

“Not a banishment,” he explained. He smirked around his fangs and looked at Anduin as he said, “A well-deserved reward on behalf of the council. Let us say… _three weeks_.”

He didn’t need to mention to any of them that three weeks was exactly the amount of time the orcish smiths in Orgrimmar had estimated they would need to repair the plates.

A wicked grin tugged at Moira’s ruby mouth, and she looked to her uncle. Muradin seemed to hesitate, until at last he nodded. “Aye,” he said, “that might do it.”

But it was Anduin’s reaction that lit the small spark of pleasure in Saurfang’s chest. His brilliant smile made Saurfang feel as though he had won some sort of prize, rather than merely done his duty and helped quell a growing dilemma. “Warchief,” he said, a hint of reverence in his voice that did _things_ to Saurfang’s heart, “that’s _perfect_.”

Art by littlegumshoe

It should have shamed him, how both his body and mind reacted to such simple praise. How a human prince could have so totally won his affection. Instead he basked in it, if only for that brief moment, and gave Anduin a courteous nod, thanking him for his compliment. It was all he could do. Certainly not all he _wanted_ to do.

Then Muradin spoke up in his boisterous dwarven timbre, and shattered the moment with all the grace of a berserk ram. “Well! Seems we’ve managed tae pull a compromise together after all. Ye have our thanks, Warchief.”

“Aye,” Moira agreed. “Our thanks indeed.” She turned her gaze on Anduin and Saurfang before her, and the strange gleam in her eye left Saurfang feeling distinctly unsettled. Had he missed something?

“If that’s all, then,” Anduin said beside him. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss with Moira, and he bowed to the two dwarven rulers before turning toward the door. “Warchief?”

Saurfang started. He had been so absorbed in his curiosity that Anduin’s light touch on his arm was like a shock, and he drew his arm away without thinking. He was abruptly and uncomfortably reminded of the prince’s reaction to his touch the night before. Frowning at himself for being caught unawares, he stepped to the side to put more space between them, firmly quelling any further thoughts of Moira Thaurissan or Anduin and his smile.

“High Thane,” Saurfang said, “Queen-regent. He inclined his head toward Muradin, followed by Moira.

He followed Anduin through the doors as they opened to admit the two back into Ironforge’s central ring. Saurfang eyed the guards as he passed, wondering if the narrowed eyes he thought he saw were only for his benefit. If only they knew how their leaders had sung his praises just moments ago. He smirked and kept moving.

“That was…” Anduin flattened his lips and hummed. “Unexpected,” he said. They were making their way from the High Seat, alone but for the ever-present roar of the Forge.

Saurfang tried to ignore the bubble of vindictive pleasure that welled in his chest. Pride in such a small victory was not becoming of a warchief, even if it was damned satisfying. “Unexpected?” he asked. “How so?”

“A rather clever solution to the problem, Warchief. I would have thought you might prefer more a direct approach.”

Saurfang huffed a laugh that shook his shoulders. “As you have forbidden me to challenge anyone in Ironforge to a mak’gora, I was left with no choice but to think of another solution.”

He saw Anduin’s brow furrow for only as long as it took for him to realize that Saurfang was joking. “Yes,” he said, quickly catching on, “and I stand by that, of course.”

“As my mate commands,” Saurfang answered earnestly. He dipped his head and caught the flush of pink that darkened the prince’s cheeks. Anduin looked away quickly, throat bobbing as he swallowed, and Saurfang could have cursed himself for the way the sight warmed his blood.

“Well,” Anduin said after several uncomfortable seconds had passed, “it’s too early for dinner, and too late for lunch. Perhaps we should find something else to occupy ourselves until we’re summoned back for our customary meal with the Hammers?”

For a moment, just one single moment, Saurfang thought he caught the hint of a more meaningful suggestion in Anduin’s eyes. Only a flash of something deeper, hinting at a question he didn’t dare voice. But then it was gone, and Saurfang knew himself for a fool to have ever dared think there might be something else in that gaze.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and considered what might please the prince. After a stretch of silence, during which they walked with no real destination in mind, he said, “Perhaps we could revisit the orphanage. The children might be interested to hear of your recent… misadventure.”

Anduin seemed surprised by the suggestion, but he still chuckled sheepishly. “Entertain them with the tale of my brush with a cold and watery grave?” he asked.

“The lake wasn’t that deep, Highness,” he explained, attempting to offer reassurance. “I could just reach the bottom.”

Anduin stopped and made a point of giving Saurfang a very blatant once-over.

His error was obvious, after that. “Point taken,” Saurfang conceded, hiding his smile.

  
Later that evening, Saurfang stood at the back of the room as Myolor Sunderfury knelt before two of the three Hammers of Ironforge. He had positioned himself there on purpose, so as to be the first thing the keeper of the Great Forge saw when he entered the High Seat, and the last thing he would see before he left.

“Keeper Sunderfury,” Muradin said evenly, yet not unkindly, “ye’ve been summoned here tae answer for yer recent actions in defiance of this council and its instructions regardin’ the use of the Great Forge by the Horde.” He paused, and his voice became softer, more familiar. “If ye have anything tae say fer yerself, now’s the time tae say it.”

Sunderfury stood, and though it made no real difference in his height from Saurfang’s perspective, he could see how it was received by the others. Anduin, who stood to Saurfang’s right, was frowning.

“I’ve great respect fer this chamber, an’ most of those who now stand within it,” Sunderfury said, putting just enough emphasis on the word _most_ to make the insult clear. “I’d give me life fer this council and what it represents, or tae defend the Forge. Given a great deal more than that, in fact. Things I cannae replace.”

Saurfang spied a troubled look from Anduin at the keeper’s words, and he caught his eye to cant his head in question. Anduin made a gesture to indicate he was fine.

Sunderfury continued. “We’ve trusted the Horde before. We’ve looked the other way in spite of their barbarism, their treachery. Fer the good o’ Azeroth we’ve risked our homes, families, and the survival of the very Alliance itself.

“I told the prince, an’ I’ll repeat it here, as ye’ve instructed: I’ll nae be the one tae strengthen their hand. Even if it means me banishment from Ironforge.”

At least the stubborn fool was consistent, he’d grant him that. Saurfang had within him the decency to accept that the man had likely lost a great deal. More than others might have been able to bear with such fortitude. It was no different for many in the Horde, Saurfang himself included. But victory against the Legion had shifted the balance of things; they had entered a new era on Azeroth, and it was time to let go of past. One bullheaded dwarf could not be permitted to stand in the way of the change both sides desperately needed in order to survive.

“I know better than most what ye’ve lost, Myolor,” Muradin said. “An’ I know what the Great Forge represents, not only tae yerself, but all of Ironforge. An’ though I dinnae expect ye tae understand or agree, I do expect ye to carry out yer duty with honor. Anything else is unacceptable in the eyes o’ this council.”

Sunderfury dipped his chin, not in a bow, but an understanding nod. Conditional acceptance; he still wasn’t backing down. “May I ask what punishment I can expect fer my disobedience?” he asked with enough dignity that even Saurfang was forced to grudgingly admit his respect.

Moira and Muradin exchanged glances, and then Moira, offering him an open and empty hand, said, “You will not be punished, Keeper Sunderfury.”

When Sunderfury started to sputter an objection, she continued. “The thane and I understand your concerns. We know they come from a place of loyalty, for Ironforge and for the Alliance. It would not do to punish such devotion to your own people.” She smiled. The way a wolf smiled before its prey. “You are to be rewarded, Keeper.”

Sunderfury glanced back at Saurfang with a look that said he understood this unexpected windfall was not what it seemed, and somehow he knew the orc had played a hand in it. When he returned his gaze to Moira he inclined his head and muttered, “Your charity is…”

“Not charity, Keeper Sunderfury,” Moira said. “Simply what is best for Ironforge. Best for us all.”

And there it was. He knew for certain now that he was being handled, and his head shot up as he gaped at the two other dwarves sitting before him. “And this reward, Queen-Regent?” he asked warily.

“Why, a holiday of sorts. A respite from your tireless efforts on behalf of the people of Ironforge.”

His mouth turned down in a grimace, and he finally bowed his head in defeat. “Aye,” he said. “I’m… honored by the council’s generosity.”

Less subtly than Saurfang thought anyone else might have done, Moira explained, “We spent a great deal of time considering what your efforts might have earned you, Keeper Sunderfury. I hope this is one that will bring you some measure of satisfaction, and put your mind at ease that you’ve done your best by your people.”

_It could have been worse,_ was the message, and Sunderfury seemed to hear it loud and clear. He would suffer no humiliation for his defiance, but neither would he be permitted to stand in the way of change. It was, in the end, the most agreeable solution for all involved, even the keeper himself. He likely realized it, and realized too that keeping his mouth shut was in his best interests now.

“Ye have me thanks, Queen-Regent, High Thane,” he said, bowing once more before them.

But Moira, it seemed, could not resist the urge to twist the knife. “Oh, it’s not we who deserve your appreciation, Keeper.” She lifted her eyes to meet Saurfang’s across the room. “It was Warchief Saurfang who suggested that you deserved to be so thoughtfully rewarded.”

Muradin looked away, and Moira smiled down on the keeper in a way that left Saurfang distinctly grateful he had somehow managed to endear himself to her without any effort at all. She certainly was formidable, and quite vicious when she wanted to be. It was difficult to imagine the sweet, charming woman who had helped them carry cakes to the orphanage might also be capable of such cold reprisal.

Sunderfury undoubtedly knew he would be expected to acknowledge not only Moira’s remark, but Saurfang himself. His whole body seemed to reject the notion, and he stood rigid.

“Keeper,” she said quietly.

Even Saurfang was beginning to feel as though she had taken it a bit too far. It was one thing to put the man in his place, and another entirely to rub salt in the wound on top of that. Beside him Anduin was radiating his disapproval. In fact, at that moment his deep frown bore a rather remarkable and incredibly disturbing resemblance to his father’s customary grimace. His unhappiness made it easy for Saurfang to step in and put a stop to everything. Not for Sunderfury’s sake, but for his mate’s. “No thanks are necessary,” he spoke up, directing his comment to the back of Sunderfury’s head. Simple, but effective. He would give the bitter dwarf no cause to assume some regret on his part that didn’t exist. Moira pursed her lips and let out a gusty sigh, but she did not continue to press the issue; Saurfang could only hope Anduin’s relief might outweigh the fallout from her anger once they were alone.

The council’s business with the keeper thus concluded, Sunderfury was dismissed, and his sidelong glare as he marched out of the room past Saurfang was only as venomous as the warchief had expected. Sunderfury knew that he had lost, that Saurfang had managed to strike him down without so much as raising his hand. He would retain his position and his dignity, and all due to the good will of an orc.

_“Don’t make him right,”_ Anduin had pleaded. Though he hadn’t said anything at the time, Saurfang had taken the prince’s words to heart. The keeper had made his gamble and lost, with no choice but to silently accept his defeat. By any measure, orcish or otherwise, that was a worthy victory. That it had also satisfied Anduin’s request of him only made the resolution that much sweeter.

He expected Moira would round on him once the doors to the High Seat were shut again, but she held her tongue. She didn’t seem angry at all, in fact. That only served to heighten his awareness of her eyes on him, and remind him of the strange look she had given him earlier.

“That went well, I think,” Muradin blithely remarked. He seemed to have set aside his distaste for Moira’s methods rather quickly. A skill, Saurfang assumed, that served him well as her fellow council member. “Truly a solution we can all appreciate.”

Beside him Anduin was smiling. From the corner of his eye he looked up at Saurfang. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said to Muradin.

  
In stark counterpoint to the first three days, the rest of their time in Ironforge passed in relative quiet. Anduin and Moira had chosen to spend most of the last day together in meditation and prayer, as Saurfang understood it, discussing matters which he gathered were only of any true relevance to priests. During that time Muradin had taken up the cause of keeping Saurfang busy—and busy they had been.

“I ken ye run a bit hotter than most, Warchief, but don’t ye think a bit more protection from the elements might be in order?” Muradin asked. He was eyeing Saurfang’s black fur cape, pointedly glancing at his mostly-bare arms and leather garments.

Rather than defend his choice of clothing, Saurfang smirked and said, “Looking for an excuse to return to the warmth of the fireside, Thane?”

Muradin’s mouth fell open in an O, and he stared incredulously for just a few seconds before erupting into a deep belly laugh that rattled the rifle on his back. “Aye, I’ll take a few pints an’ a warm fire any day!” he agreed. “Only thing better is a good roast tae go with it!”

He waved Saurfang forward with a mirthful grin, and together, under the watchful and worried gaze of the trailing Ironforge guards, they set out into the wilderness of Dun Morogh.

“What sort of game is there to be found here?” Saurfang asked after they had spent some time hiking the wooded hills. He had seen rabbits and birds for himself, and spotted the signs of larger predators like snow leopards and wolves. But the ever-falling snow obscured many of the tracks, and muffled the sounds of those creatures that would rather not be found. Creatures he imagined they might wish to hunt.

“Och, reckon we’ll soon enough find ourselves on the trail of a boar, or perhaps a large buck, fattened up tae withstand the winter. Dun Morogh may appear barren, Warchief, but there’s life all around ye.” He tapped a finger to the side of his nose. “Just have tae know what yer lookin’ for.”

As if on cue, the scent of something more compelling than a rabbit reached his nose, and Saurfang came to a stop in the shin-deep snow. Muradin, trudging through the powdery drift beside him, also stopped. “Found something, have ye?” he whispered.

Oh, Saurfang had found something, alright.

Up ahead, upwind and oblivious to their presence, stood a beast with long, shaggy gray fur. It grazed leisurely, unhurried, and blissfully certain of its safety. On one side of its head the curl of a horn ended abruptly in a single jagged stump.

“Well, I’ll be,” Muradin said, careful to keep his voice low. Amusement laced his words. “Looks like we’ll be bringin’ a bit o’ vengeance back tae Ironforge, as well as a fresh kill.”

Of course, the ram was so at ease because there was likely very little in the whole of Dun Morogh that could harm it. The beast snuffled the snow as it moved along the hillside, blowing puffs of hot steam into the mountain air. The single yellow eye that Saurfang could see was trained on the ground, it’s long, slanted pupil no doubt searching for more greenery trapped beneath the snow.

Muradin was slowly sliding the rifle from his back. He crouched low, nearly obscured by the sheer depth of the drift. Saurfang had not yet moved.

“Ye’ll want to stand back, Warchief, unless ye plan to take the beast yerself.” He glanced at the short axes hanging from Saurfang’s belt. “I’ll not stand in the way of yer rightful claim if ye do.”

He meant it, of course. Saurfang had no doubts that the great thane would stand aside and watch as the warchief of the Horde drew first blood on their hunt. He would probably even enjoy it, given the trouble the ill-tempered ram had caused. Saurfang would have enjoyed it, too.

But Anduin was well, safe back in Ironforge, and no true harm had been done. A part of him that understood all too well the wild urge to viciously fight subjugation could appreciate that the ram had refused to be broken. It might have done no more than buck its rider and run off into the wilderness, but Anduin’s own ram had been close, and the hill had been steep. Although it had threatened the life of his mate, that was simply an unfortunate coincidence.

He was left strangely conflicted, and Muradin seemed to sense it.

“Warchief?” he prompted. He shouldered his rifle again, waiting for an answer.

Saurfang took a long moment to consider the matter, finally coming to a decision. “Let it go,” he said.

“Aye?”

“The beast earned its freedom.” It had, more or less, bested him. Any creature that could do that deserved to live or die on its own terms.

Muradin nodded thoughtfully. He stroked the end of his beard, watching Saurfang with a strange look in his eye. Now that they had decided to spare the ram, it was no longer vital that they keep quiet, or remain out of sight. “Yer a man of many intriguing contradictions, Warchief,” he said. “I find myself impressed, and pleasantly so.”

“I’m honored by the compliment,” Saurfang replied. He wasn’t entirely sure it was a compliment, but he wasn’t prepared to question the man’s sincerity after taking advantage of his hospitality. Certainly not while he had a rifle strapped to his back. “I must admit, I too have been surprised. I’ve found our time in Ironforge far more enjoyable than I had first believed it would be.” He frowned at himself for speaking so openly without thinking. “I apologize, I don’t intend that as an insult to you or your city.”

“Think nothing of it,” Muradin reassured him. “I’m pleased tae know we’ve made an impression of our own. But…” He scratched his chin through the hair that sprouted from it in a braided mass. “We’re of an age, Warchief, and I’ve no right, yet I feel compelled tae offer ye some friendly advice. If ye don’t mind, that is.”

Saurfang cocked a brow at him, half-amused by the mere suggestion. He imagined some sage wisdom from a man who was not only _of an age_ with him, as he had so thoughtfully pointed out, but perhaps even Saurfang’s junior by a few years. He made a gesture for Muradin to continue.

“My niece, Moira, is well meaning. She’s content tae let the both of ye work it out on yer own, in yer own way and time. An’ that’s all well and good fer most folks. But Anduin and yerself, yer not most folks.” He shook his head. “It’s high time ye give this silliness a rest.”

There was a note of disapproval in his words that Saurfang found not only alarming, but potentially upsetting, depending on their intent. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, bristling at the suggestion that he was doing something _wrong_ with Anduin. That they were _both_ wrong in some way. “Anduin—”

“Is a good lad, Warchief. Strong as his father in all the ways that matter most. And no fool, either. I dinnae imagine he entered into this marriage lightly, or unaware of what it might mean fer him tae become yer mate.”

“Of course not.” What was Muradin _saying?_

The old dwarf held his breath for a moment, and then in one great rush he blew it out again, shaking his head as he did so. “Ye don’t see it.”

“I don’t even know what _it_ is,” Saurfang snarled, too frustrated by the strange and cryptic conversation to bother hiding his anger for the sake of courtesy.

“Anduin fancies ye, Saurfang.” A soft smile wrinkled the corners of the dwarf’s eyes. “It’s clear as day, do ye not know?”

Saurfang stood straight; a strange warmth crept over his skin, and suddenly the fur cloak around his shoulders was almost stifling. Surely Muradin didn’t mean—

No. It wasn’t possible, for so many reasons. Good reasons, which he’d been over time and again, often late at night when his racing thoughts refused to be quieted. He shook his head. “You’re mistaken,” he insisted. “He’s simply comfortable with our arrangement.”

“Warchief.”

“He’s young. In an unfamiliar land.”

Muradin gestured to the snow-capped mountains that surrounded them. “Hardly unfamiliar to the prince, I’d say. I’ll wager he’s no different here than he’s been in Orgrimmar.”

Saurfang tried to keep a growl from creeping up into his throat as he said, “That _isn’t_ the point.”

“Do ye not _want_ his affections, Warchief? Because if that’s so, ye owe the lad yer honesty.”

He owed Anduin a great deal more than just honesty, he thought, but Muradin didn’t need to be made aware of the specific form of the guilt that weighed on Saurfang’s conscience. It was enough that Anduin had been so gracious about it.

But why? Why had he simply accepted Saurfang’s grudging company, without ever demanding the apology and recognition he so deserved?

It couldn’t be that Muradin was right.  
  
Yet Anduin had smiled so sweetly that morning, and there _had_ been something more to his suggestion, hadn't there? Or was it only wishful thinking?

“I’ve a feeling there’s more tae this, though,” Muradin said confidently. He was distressingly correct. “Perhaps a long talk with the prince is in order?” He shouldered his rifle, gave the gray ram in the distance a last, considering look, and said, “I’ll see yer given the necessary privacy before the two of ye return tae Stormwind. A gift,” he added, smiling again beneath his beard. “Belated congratulations.”

Saurfang watched him trundle off through the snow, left to follow in stunned silence. Whatever Muradin thought he had seen between them must have been a mistake. That was the only explanation. Anduin couldn’t want Saurfang; it simply wasn’t possible.

Was it?

  
That evening they sent their things ahead to Stormwind, and said their final goodbyes to Ironforge. Only a few short hours after Muradin’s unexpected declaration, Saurfang found himself once again standing beside Anduin, anxiously waiting on the arrival of the Deeprun Tram.

The terminal itself was empty, and Saurfang thought that might have been intentional—Muradin’s _gift_ to him. After all, it wouldn’t do to have the Alliance prince and his orcish mate standing around, gawked at by whatever common rabble happened to have boarded behind them. Especially if they intended to have a private conversation along the way. But Saurfang didn’t have the faintest idea how to approach the subject, let alone conduct a frank discussion with the prince about something so personal. For all his vast knowledge of war, of conducting armies and leading men and women to fight and die for a cause, he cringed at the prospect of facing _one_ human. Given the alternative, that didn’t bother him nearly as much as he thought it should.

The journey itself was silent, awkward. For all that they had been through together in just a few short days, they seemed to have forgotten how to speak to one another the moment they left Ironforge. Finding himself comforted by the silence, Saurfang met the rushing wind in the tunnel with grim determination. He might not know how to broach such a delicate topic, but he certainly knew how to pretend as though he had no desire to discuss anything at all. A part of him thought it might be better that way; better to keep quiet than to ask, and learn that Muradin was indeed wrong.

It was perhaps unlucky, then, that the prince was so often willing to take the initiative when Saurfang himself found his own resolve failed him. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind listening to an idea of mine?” Anduin asked as they came upon the underwater leg of their journey. “It concerns a proposal that might potentially be of benefit to both the Horde and the Alliance.”

Bright blue light filled the tunnel, casting everything in an otherworldly glow. It was difficult not to stare, and Saurfang found himself blinking several times before he managed to tear his eyes away. “Go ahead,” he said.

“It’s… a potentially sensitive matter. As warchief, I felt it best to discuss it with you first.” Anduin didn’t have to mention his unscheduled trip to Darnassus to make his point. Saurfang nodded, and Anduin continued. “Moira and I met with some of our fellow priests this morning. Some of what was discussed was quite intriguing, actually. But one subject in particular caught my attention. Something I believe you may be able to facilitate, if you find yourself willing. It has to do with Sylvanas Windrunner, and—”

“Do you smell that?” Saurfang stepped forward on the tram car, breathing in the close air of the tunnel. Mixed with the more industrial scents of oil, heat, and forged metal was something more familiar. Earthy, in a decidedly unpleasant way. It smelled like… 

Dog.

They were approaching the station on the Stormwind end of the track, and as the car ascended the last rise, Saurfang caught sight of several figures standing on the terminal platform, the most familiar of which was Varian Wrynn himself. The king was joined by the unmistakable form of the Gilnean king. The wolf, Saurfang noted, was not in his human form, as he had taken to be Greymane’s habit. Beside them both stood Lady Jaina Proudmoore, no less threatening for all that she lacked any claws or sharp teeth.

Anduin made a disappointed sound. “Oh, Father,” he sighed miserably, “what have you done _now?_”

Saurfang crossed his arms over his chest and prepared himself for their arrival, all thoughts of his own private concerns banished behind a curtain of practiced calm. On the platform he watched Varian do the same. Both men smiled wryly at one another.

What indeed, he wondered.

Art by littlegumshoe


	9. And You Thought Your Family Dinners Were Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a moment to check out the fantastic art by CryArt and littlegumshoe that's been added to previous chapters!

“You’ll stay in Stormwind tonight, of course. As my honored guests.”

Anduin couldn’t seem to meet Saurfang’s eyes, but he knew the warchief was watching him. Likely scowling at him, and with very good reason. His father had ambushed them at the tram terminal, flanked by Jaina and Genn, who were no great fans of the Horde themselves and made no real effort to hide it. In all the ensuing disgruntlement and half-muttered comments, Varian had somehow managed to make the warchief of the Horde a willing prisoner of the Alliance for at least the next twenty-four hours. He hadn’t even bothered to hide his satisfied smirk when Saurfang grudgingly conceded to the delay in their return to Orgrimmar. Anduin nearly spoke up then, convinced there must be some compromise that might satisfy them all, but then he saw the resigned grimace on Saurfang’s face and realized it was too late.

At least, Anduin thought with a bit of welcome relief, they had been assigned rooms on opposite ends of the keep. For once his father’s obvious disdain for Saurfang had proved a blessing, rather than a curse. Only time would tell if that was to remain the case.

They were to attend a dinner, which his father had claimed would be held in their honor. Anduin knew better; the dinner, a first in the long history of war between the Horde and the Alliance, would be no simple affair. For that reason Anduin had gone to see his father in the map room, where he was presently discussing kingdom matters with two of his generals and the SI:7 spymaster, Mathias Shaw.

“Anduin!” Varian exclaimed as the prince entered the room. “Just a moment.” He nodded to one of the generals, who swiftly rolled up the map the four men had been bent over, tucking it away in a hard leather case, out of sight.

Anduin chose not to rise to the bait. His father clearly wanted him to notice that he had been purposely blocked from seeing the map, and so he did his best to pretend as though he hadn’t.

“What can I do for you, my son?”

Shaw and the generals made their quiet and respectful exits, with little more than a lingering glance in Anduin’s direction. When the doors were closed and Anduin was alone at last with his father, he dropped all pretense of making a friendly visit. “I know why you’re keeping us here,” he said.

Varian bristled. His smile disappeared, and he suddenly became very interested in a row of plotters in the corner of the map table. “I have no idea what you mean. And I don’t think I like your tone.”

“You’re making this as difficult for him as possible,” Anduin accused. “Why?”

“Who is this _him_ you speak of?” Varian demanded. “Certainly you haven’t become so accustomed to Orcish that you’ve forgotten how to properly speak Common.”

“You know exactly who I mean. Why are you doing this? The warchief has been nothing but agreeable from the start.” That wasn’t entirely true, of course, but those first few weeks had taught them both a great deal about each other, and they were well past such nonsense now.

That only prompted a derisive snort, however, which he chose to ignore much as he had the map. “Because I am your father, and it’s my job to keep you safe. You would be wise to remember that. You are not an orc, Anduin, and you never will be. The Horde is not your home.”

Anduin stepped forward, refusing to be intimidated by the same nonsense that had already been used against him once before. He had faced down an orc warchief in his own hold, he would not suffer his father’s needless meddling now. “The Horde _is_ my home, that’s what this has all been about. And if you truly wish to protect me, you can start by showing my mate the proper respect he’s due as warchief.”

Varian bared his teeth in a snarl. “Your _mate?_ Listen to yourself, Anduin! He’s turning you against your own people, and for what?!” He brought his fist down on the map table, knocking over the plotters. “This isn’t real, it never was! You were only ever meant to be an example, not a—not a _concubine!_”

“You’re wrong,” Anduin said, shaking his head so fiercely that it tossed his hair into his eyes. “It’s nothing like that. Saurfang is a fine man, and a good leader. He’s thoughtful, generous, and he’s bent over backwards to maintain this peace. You’re the only one who is determined to see it fail, and I don’t understand why.”

“I’m certain that’s not all he’d like to see bent over backwards,” Varian muttered bitterly, and not so quietly that Anduin couldn’t hear it. Raising his voice he said, “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you enjoyed being that brute’s _mate_.” But he didn’t sound as though he doubted it at all, and his contempt left its mark.

Anduin stood up straight and lifted his chin, determined that he would not be cowed by such pettiness, or let his disappointment show. “Perhaps I do,” he said.

The look of disgust that earned him was stinging; his own father sneered at him as though he had been scraped off the bottom of a soldier’s boot. “Open your eyes!” he shouted, turning away to walk off his outrage. It hardly seemed to make a difference. “He doesn’t care for you, he only cares about what he can get _from_ you! You’re a means to an end, Anduin!”

“No, you’re wrong,” Anduin said again, “I had to convince him to let me use my connections within the Alliance to his benefit.”

Varian actually rolled his eyes at that. “Did you?” he asked. “Or did he only allow you to _think_ that’s what you were doing?” He came up behind Anduin and grasped his shoulders, turning him around so that they were face to face again. Gone were the cruel sneer and harsh tone. For that one moment he was only a father, afraid for his son’s safety and happiness. It was almost enough to soothe the pain his words had caused. Almost. “He’s a clever man, Anduin. He hasn’t gotten where he is by being foolish.”

Gently, Anduin insisted, “You don’t know him.”

Just like that, the fury and disgust returned twice as strong as before. “And neither do you!” Varian shouted, almost pushing Anduin away in disgust. “You’ve got this… silly infatuation, and it’s blinded to the truth of who he is. _What_ he is. He came to me looking to purchase peace at any cost. _You_ were the goods bartered in that exchange. That’s all you are to him, all you’ll ever be.”

It hurt Anduin to hear those words from someone he loved. It hurt even more to know that, deep down, his father didn’t truly mean them. He didn’t think of Anduin as mere goods, or harbor so little respect for his choices and his opinions that he would dismiss them without a second thought, as he was doing now. But fear and anger would do things to a man’s reason. His father had never been an exception to the insistent tug of his emotions, regardless of how courageous and levelheaded he could be.

“He’s kind to me,” Anduin said quietly. He had hoped that, perhaps more than any other argument he could offer, might mean enough to ease his father’s hatred. Even if only enough to make the next few hours bearable. To know that his son—his only child—was happy and being treated well.

But it seemed he was wrong. “He’s careful with his _investment_,” Varian spat, hissing the words with all the contempt Anduin had ever heard him utter. It struck like an arrow to the chest, burrowing deep into his heart.

“Why?” he asked.

Varian had turned away from him again. He stood before the map table, leaning on his fists as he surveyed the outline of the Eastern Kingdoms. “Why _what?_”

“Why do you insist we stay? Why even bother? If you’re so… disgusted—”

“I am high king, and as such I am responsible for the safety of my people. I must maintain this peace for their sake, as you pointed out.”

Anduin shook his head. “You and I both know that isn’t why you’re doing it,” he said. His grudge with Saurfang was personal, and had been from the start. “You speak of me as though I’m nothing more than an object—some sort of… _baton_, passed from one holder to the next. Yet it was _your_ hand that gave me to Saurfang. I’ve done what I can to solidify our bond, as I was meant to, as my duties to both the Horde and the Alliance demand. I have lived up to the example you set for me, and accepted my new position with all the dignity and strength I am able. I would think—I would _hope_ you might be proud of me. But for the fact that Saurfang is an orc, I have fulfilled my role as your heir just as I would have if this marriage had taken place in another kingdom, rather than Orgrimmar.”

He leaned over the table just enough to look into his father’s eyes, even if his father staunchly avoided meeting his. “What is it that truly upsets you?” he asked. “That you were bound by duty to give my hand to the leader of the Horde? Or that I liked it?”

  
After the unpleasant encounter in the map room, Anduin did not hope nor expect that dinner might be a friendly affair. That was assuming his father didn’t cancel the evening outright. But when one of the servants knocked on his door to announce that he was expected, he dutifully followed, knowing that there was a significant chance he would end the evening feeling much worse than he already did.

He arrived to find that Saurfang had already been seated at the table along with the other guests. It seemed Anduin himself was the only one missing, and he was under no illusions that his early omission had been anything but intentional. The first of many such discoveries, he was certain. His late arrival forced the others already seated to observe him as he made his way to the center seat—opposite his own mate, contrary to the dictates of etiquette—and wait for him to settle before any conversation could resume.

And oh, what conversation it must have been.

To Anduin’s right and left respectfully sat Genn and Jaina. His father took the traditional place at the head of the table, and to either side of him sat High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque and Archmage Khadgar. On either side of Saurfang were Velen—who did not seem interested in the dinner so much as memorizing every detail of Saurfang’s face—and Vereesa Windrunner. Beside Vereesa were her two boys, Giramar and Galadin, who, despite their age, evidently had not undergone nearly the same sort of training in table manners as Anduin. They fidgeted and bickered, and every time Vereesa turned to admonish them she also slapped Saurfang in the side of the shoulder with her ears.

At the other end of the table, beside Genn, sat Queen Mia and Princess Tess. Rounding out the guest list, for reasons Anduin suspected he might never understand, was a very uncomfortable looking Master Shaw, who sat alone at the far end.

It was, in the simplest terms, a power play. The king had stacked his deck, so to speak, and surrounded Saurfang with former enemies, many of whom could obliterate him in the time it took for a single heart to beat but once. And they did not comprise but half of the allies he could call upon if need be.

Anduin sighed and accepted a glass of wine from one of the servants. His father might as well have swaggered into the dining hall and unlaced his trousers in front of the whole lot.

Much to his credit, Saurfang seemed to be holding his own rather well, at least as far as Anduin could deduce from the tone of the conversation taking place around him. While he was by no means deep in the thick of things, and in fact seemed rather comically out of place, he also showed no signs of any real discomfort. A blessing, perhaps, or a sign of something worse to come. It was entirely conceivable that his father had intended to wait for Anduin’s arrival before truly raking the warchief over the coals.

Anduin made eye contact with his mate, receiving a halfhearted smile in return. That was a relief; they were in this together, at least. After their time in Ironforge, and so many dinners spent in the company of at least one of the Three Hammers, he understood Anduin’s general disdain for such formal affairs. It was a quality they both shared.

Varian stood, and the chatter around the table swiftly came to an end. “To my son,” he said, raising his glass. Anduin noted that his eyes did not actually fall upon the heir he toasted. “And to all the heroes of the Alliance: the Legion has been defeated, our homes and our people are safe once more. I could not ask for better allies, or better friends.”

The others raised their glasses in answer. Anduin, in no mood to play such games, pointedly left his on the table. But he smiled as he watched Saurfang hurry to mimic the rest of the guests. He had not even noticed that Anduin was abstaining from the toast, so concerned was he with observing human customs. It was charming, and Anduin wished with all his heart that his father could see what he did. That he could appreciate such a man, who would sit through a toast designed especially to exclude both him and the Horde, and still make an effort to do what was right.

At that moment Anduin wanted nothing more than to stand up and leave and take his mate with him. They could travel to the Undercity, and find more amenable passage back to Orgrimmar that way. There were Horde outposts and villages all over the Eastern Kingdoms. Surely _someone_ could see them safely home. Even the dwarves, he suspected, would make more of an effort to accommodate them than his own father had.

But leaving would be an insult too great for Varian Wrynn to tolerate. Anduin might get away with sitting out the toast, but absent good cause he would swiftly find himself on the wrong side of most present if he attempted to walk out of a formal dinner in his—and ostensibly his mate’s—honor.

Thankfully, once the meal began the table was largely quiet, save for the occasional exchange between the different guests. Everyone seemed focused on eating, more interested in food than their neighbors—all but Velen, anyway.

“Warchief!” Varian suddenly called out over the quiet table. More than one plate clattered with the sound of its startled owner’s silverware. Anduin braced himself for the worst.

Saurfang lifted his head and looked to where Varian sat. Like most of the guests, the king had come to the table without any armor. Instead he wore a blue silk shirt and soft leather breeches, with boots to match. His cuffs were tied with black silk cord, and embroidered with rich gold thread. It was clear he’d gone to quite a bit of effort for the occasion, more so than Anduin would have expected. It appeared most of the other guests had done so as well.

Saurfang, on the other hand, was wearing the same leather tunic, ripped tabard, and worn leather pants he had donned earlier that day in Ironforge. His boots were steel plate and scuffed from years of use. It was exactly as Anduin had expected, given that the warchief hardly ever seemed to wear anything else. The most alteration he had ever tolerated was the black fur cape he’d been gifted in Ironforge. In expectation of his mate’s appearance, Anduin himself had gone to no special effort to preen for the dinner; he wore only a simple shirt and trousers, with laced boots and a pair of soft, doeskin bracers. It was nothing more or less than he would have worn to dine in Saurfang’s quarters in Grommash Hold. Fitting garb for the mate of the warchief.

“Your Majesty?” Saurfang asked. His reply drew Anduin from his own thoughts, and centered most of the focus of the table on himself.

“How are things in Orgrimmar these days?” Varian asked cheerfully. He was peering at Saurfang over his steepled fingers, eyes wrinkled at the corners as though he found some aspect of their exchange humorous. Anduin suspected he did, and for reasons to which only he was currently privy. “I understand you’ve reached an accord with Tyrande Whisperwind regarding the resources of Ashenvale. You must be quite proud of yourself for such an achievement.”

It was a trap. An obvious, and rather insulting, trap. What’s more, they both knew it. Anduin watched Saurfang plaster a fake smile on his face as he answered in the only way that would not cause a scene, and embarrass either of them further. “Indeed, it was a significant gain for the Horde, however, it was not my victory,” Saurfang explained, knowing that Varian had already been made aware of the details. “It was the prince who negotiated the new treaty with the high priestess.” He turned an approving eye on Anduin, who returned his gratitude and praise with a humble smile.

“Well, between Ashenvale and Ironforge, it seems the Horde is already benefiting a great deal from this arrangement,” Varian remarked too casually. He returned to his plate, studiously ignoring Saurfang and Anduin’s incredulous stares. “I wonder when the Alliance might see some return for this… _investment_,” he muttered.

Anduin felt his face heat at the remark. It was one thing when they were alone, but here! “Father!”

“As I’m given to understand,” Mekkatorque cut in, “it was the Council of Three Hammers that initially approached the Horde for assistance, and they were very generously obliged. It seems we may yet sustain this peace, thanks in no small part to the warchief and Prince Anduin.” If the gnome was aware of the dark scowl the king was casting in his direction, he had the good sense to pretend otherwise. Anduin silently thanked the Light for the good-natured naivete of gnomes.

“Yes,” Varian bit out sharply. “I’m told you’ve become quite _friendly_ with Moira Thaurissan.”

“And Muradin,” Anduin put in. “They went hunting together just yesterday, in fact.” He looked at Saurfang and pointedly said, “Muradin had nothing but good things to say about your time together.”

Varian scoffed into his wine glass. “Interesting, given that I had to pull him back by the scruff to keep him from killing you in Icecrown.”

A few of the other diners glanced his way, but otherwise the meal continued uninterrupted. Saurfang grimaced. He did not, as Anduin had feared, react explosively to the obvious taunt. It left Anduin torn between his anger with his father’s behavior, knowing it for his own—terribly misguided—effort to protect his son, and pride in his mate for swallowing back what was no doubt a considerable amount of anger.

“Icecrown was a long time ago,” Saurfang said at last, and with rather more equanimity than Anduin thought he himself might have managed under such circumstances. Unfortunately, only a few seconds later, making perhaps the first and biggest mistake of the evening, he locked eyes with Jaina across the table.

The water in Anduin’s glass froze solid. So too his wine, and every other liquid at the table. If Saurfang had believed he might find a sympathetic party in Jaina, he was dangerously mistaken. Time and too much pain to tally separated her from the woman who had once, according to his father, stood atop the ramparts of Icecrown Citadel and praised her king for the kindness he had shown a grieving orc.

Jaina had once been a champion of peace, counting some of the Horde among her closest friends. But that, as his mate had said, was a long time ago.

“Indeed,” Varian said smugly. “Many years. Time enough to change us all.” Quietly, he added, “Archmage, if you would.”

Khadgar made a small gesture and the wine and water all melted, reverting at once to a liquid state.

Varian reached for his glass and took another sip as though nothing had happened. “Even you must admit you’ve changed, Warchief.” Anduin recognized the subtle shift in his tone, the way he was carefully driving forward, intent on making some point. It did not bode well for any of them, he thought.

“I imagine you might do many things differently,” Varian continued, still feigning something like indifference. “Your tutelage of Garrosh Hellscream, for instance.”

A familiar spike of anxiety lanced through Anduin’s gut, and the echo of persistent pain answered deep within his bones. The mere mention of Garrosh set his heart racing, and put a cold sweat on his brow. There was no sense in attempting to meet Saurfang’s gaze now; the warchief’s eyes were studiously fixed on the table between his hands, where he gripped his small silverware so tightly that it warped in his fists.

“I did what I could to guide him,” Saurfang answered quietly. Anduin could see the lines of tension in his body, pulling at his muscles and digging creases into his brow.

“What you _could?_” Jaina repeated in a low, deadly tone.

It was time for Anduin to speak up, and stop his father’s questionably good intentions from bringing ruin on them all. “Perhaps we should discuss something else,” he suggested in the tone he had been taught to use when he was not actually making a suggestion at all.

“You remained in Northrend for some time after the Lich King’s defeat, didn’t you?” Varian asked, ignoring Anduin. He spoke as though there wasn’t a storm currently brewing over the center of the table; as though he hadn’t set its dark clouds spinning himself. “I suppose that means you only heard of Theramore in passing. As gossip, perhaps. Soldiers rotating through on a tour of the north, bragging of the new warchief’s exploits. Your predecessor, now. Quite a legacy. But, as you said, you did what you could.”

Beside Saurfang, Vereesa had gone very still and very quiet. Anduin couldn’t tell if it was because she was angered by the reminder of those massacred at Theramore, or saddened by the memory of her own loss. It was cruel, in either case. Cruel to force everyone to relive one of the darkest days in their shared history. Everyone present, Saurfang included, had been there for Garrosh’s trial in Pandaria. They had all either witnessed or testified as the events of Theramore were described in excruciating detail.

“That’s enough,” Anduin said under his breath. His emotions threatened to spill out in every direction if he dared raise his voice any higher.

“It’s only a friendly conversation, son,” Varian dismissed casually. “In any case, I doubt the warchief requires his mate to speak for him, does he?” He directed the question at Saurfang with a knowing smirk.

Anduin caught an angry huff, almost a growl, from Saurfang. He could hardly believe what he was hearing, but at that moment he was too concerned with the looming threat of Saurfang’s rage to give the insult more than a passing thought.

Varian folded his fingers together in front of him and leaned back in his seat. “That is your custom, isn’t it? An orc’s mate is meant to serve. And between Ashenvale and Ironforge you’ve been served _quite_ well, haven’t you? I wonder how else my son might oblige his warchief.”

“You know little of our customs, it seems.”

“I know as much as I care to.”

“What is your point, Wrynn?” Saurfang demanded. He stood, letting the table bear his weight as he glared at Varian over the heads of the other guests.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand your question.”

“This endless needling,” he snarled. “Your insistence upon rubbing my face in my mistakes, as though it’s possible I could have forgotten them.”

All attempts at civility were abruptly abandoned; Genn scoffed beside him, and Anduin spared a frown for the Gilnean king. “_Mistakes?_” Genn asked incredulously. He didn’t seem to have a point to make beyond that, but the damage was done. Others began weighing in on the subject without invitation.

“I’m surprised you could find the courage to ask for Anduin’s hand after what happened in Pandaria,” Jaina said. “Have you ever considered what it must be like for him, living in Orgrimmar? Surrounded by _orcs?_”

“Jaina, I can speak for myself,” Anduin said firmly.

Saurfang rounded on her. “I have made _every_ effort to make the prince comfortable—”

“Well, of course you would,” Varian agreed, drawing Saurfang’s attention away from Jaina once more, “look how useful he’s been.”

“You agreed to this,” Saurfang said, slamming one fist down on the table. Beside him Vereesa abruptly stood, and, with a disapproving scowl for those still seated, ushered her sons from the room, muttering some excuse about Galadin’s sour stomach.

“I agreed to let my son decide for himself,” Varian went on, oblivious to Vereesa’s exit. “That is what a father does. As you might recall, I had serious misgivings from the start.”

“And I _did_ decide,” Anduin cut in. “Because I believed the possibility of peace was worth it.”

“Worth what?” Saurfang asked. He turned back to Anduin, and the knot of his brow was drawn down into a deep, shadowed V.

Anduin put a hand up to forestall any further misunderstanding. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“I think it is.” Varian leaned forward in his seat, past Khadgar, who made a futile attempt to interrupt their heated exchange. “Worth living in a dusty, squalid corner of Kalimdor, perhaps? Worth giving up your home, your family? Worth risking your life in the hope that some vengeful orc or scheming goblin won’t put a knife in your back? Pick one, the drawbacks are plentiful.”

“That isn’t what I meant!” Anduin insisted.

“You speak of Orgrimmar as though it is some lawless Alliance backwater. The prince faces threats elsewhere, Your Majesty. Your own mistakes haunt these lands just as surely as mine.”

“My son is _safe_ with the Alliance,” Varian sneered.

Anduin wanted to help, he truly did. And if he had taken only a few seconds to think before his next words tumbled from his lips, he might have. “I’m _safe_ with the warchief,” he said, rushing through the words in the hope that proof might make a difference. “He risked himself to save me not four days ago!”

His father’s scowl turned on him, and he narrowed his eyes dangerously. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Anduin held his breath. Across the table Saurfang let out a quiet sigh and closed his eyes for just a moment.

“It’s nothing,” Anduin tried to say.

“Save you from _what?_”

It was too late to avoid the truth now that he’d let some of it slip. “We were riding in Dun Morogh,” he explained, “and my ram slipped down an embankment. The lake was frozen and I fell in, but I’m _fine_.”

“So, my son nearly drowned, and you still expect me to believe he’s safe with you? You expect me to_ trust you_, knowing you kept this from me?” Varian demanded of Saurfang, who was glaring daggers at Anduin across the table.

“If I may say something,” Mekkatorque attempted to interject, only to be met by a simultaneous _“No!”_ from no fewer than four different people at the table.

Far less diplomatically, Khadgar set his napkin on the table and stood. “It seems this evening has taken an unfortunate turn. Perhaps we should all retire to our respective places.”

Varian was no more concerned with the archmage’s gentle reproach than Vereesa’s departure. He was out of his seat, leaning hard on the table with both fists clenched in a mirror of Saurfang’s posture. “I gave you my son so that he might help foster peace, Warchief. It seems, however, that you’ve found a much better use for him, parading him about at the cost of his own safety in order to procure favors from sympathetic Alliance allies!”

“You did not _give_ me to anyone!” Anduin shouted, slamming his wine glass down on the table and standing up. “It was _my_ choice, remember?!”

“Sit down!” Varian demanded.

“Stay out of this!” Saurfang growled.

Anduin gaped at the two of them in disbelief. He didn’t sit.

“Well, Warchief? What’s to be your excuse this time?” Varian asked snidely. “That you’re once more doing your _best?_”

Saurfang’s scowl deepened and he snorted angrily. “It was _your son_ who insisted upon involving himself in Horde affairs, Wrynn. Who traveled to Darnassus, alone and without my permission, to negotiate with Tyrande Whisperwind on behalf of the Horde.” He turned so that he was fully facing the head of the table, away from Anduin’s incredulous stare. “Who gave me no peace in Ironforge. _Your son_, who made himself such a nuisance that I could no longer afford to ignore his incessant whining!”

The bottom of Anduin’s stomach felt as though it had dropped out of his body. He stared at Saurfang, speechless, humiliated, and felt the galling heat of angry tears pricking the corners of his eyes. But the warchief still wasn’t looking at him. Anduin couldn’t be sure if that was better or worse.

“If he’s such a burden, perhaps you should return him to his rightful place here in Stormwind!”

“And provide you with an excuse to strike at the Horde, Wrynn?”

“I hardly need one,” Varian scoffed, “your filthy kind seem disposed to violence and treachery. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you start a war all on your own.”

“At least my _filthy kind_ have enough honor to speak plainly, rather than hiding our intentions behind double meanings and thinly-veiled disdain. You have opposed this arrangement since the beginning, yet you, High King, were too much of a coward to refuse my proposal on your own. Instead you left the choice to your mewling whelp, hoping _he_ would have the courage you lacked!”

“I had faith in my son’s ability to make the right choice,” Varian snarled darkly.

“And yet you have second-guessed that choice from the very moment it was made. So much for your faith.”

“Perhaps, unlike some, I simply have enough integrity not to abandon my child for the sake of my own _glory_, Saurfang.”

Anduin held his breath, expecting the room to erupt in shouts and battle and blood at any second. Across from him Saurfang’s chest and shoulders were heaving, and fury radiated from him in waves that Anduin could almost feel, vibrating through the air like an early warning. His teeth were clenched, bared in a tight snarl between his fangs.

“You are a gutless, honorless fool, Varian Wrynn,” he spat, the low rumble of his voice somehow more threatening than any roar. “You can keep your prince, keep your treaty, and burn in your own damned _integrity_.” He shoved his chair back and stormed out of the room without another word.

The others were quiet apart from Mekkatorque, who was muttering to himself about putting the greater good first.

“I believe it’s time to leave,” Khadgar announced quietly, shattering the silence that followed the warchief’s abrupt departure. To the high tinker he said, “If I may offer you assistance returning to Ironforge?”

“No, I, er—I’ll take the tram, if it’s all the same,” Mekkatorque replied. “I’ve some business to attend to here in Stormwind.” He dipped his head respectfully to Varian, who ignored him.

“Terribly simple to excite those savages,” Genn said into his wine glass. Beside him Mia was glowering at her husband, but Tess had a smirk on her face that made her opinion on the matter all too clear.

“You’re hardly one to talk,” Anduin snapped at him. He pushed his own chair out of the way and marched up to where his father still stood hunched at the head of the table. “I expected better of you,” he said bitterly, before turning on his heel and leaving, following Saurfang’s example and his path out into the hall.

Whatever happened between his father and the others once he left the room was no longer his concern. Anduin had only one goal now: to find Saurfang. It shouldn’t be too difficult, given that he was presently the only orc in Stormwind, and certainly the only one in the keep.

He was furious—both with his father _and_ his mate. They had acted like children, too caught up in their own petty dislike for one another and mistrust to behave like the leaders they were. They had both used Anduin as a weapon to hurt the other, and in doing so caused him to suffer most. Now, after all that had been said, all he’d been forced to endure, Saurfang thought he would simply cast Anduin aside? Oh, he would have _words_ with his warchief before the evening was through.

“Warchief!” he bellowed down the hall as he turned a corner and caught sight of a mass of green muscle. Saurfang was stomping through the corridor, tossing his head to glare and snarl at each guard in warning as he passed. Not a single one of them had the nerve to challenge him. “Don’t you dare ignore me!”

That drew his attention. He rounded on Anduin, who was no more than a few paces away by that point. “Do you still believe you have a right to make demands of me?” he growled, huffing furiously as he loomed over Anduin. “I’ve had enough of your arrogance, _human_.”

“Tough, because I’m not going anywhere. You aren’t going to dismiss me simply because it’s easier than dealing with my father.”

If he hadn’t gotten to know Saurfang so well during their time together, if he hadn’t seen that the man _was_ good, and honorable, and capable of incredible kindness, he might have flinched when Saurfang raised his fists at his sides. He held them there as though he wanted nothing more than to strike Anduin down where he stood, trembling in rage. Anduin only glared up at him, defying the orc’s anger, daring him to insist on his rash decision and walk away. Inside he was terrified that Saurfang might actually meet his challenge.

“Your fool of a father is right, you don’t belong in the Horde. And I have no further use for you.”

“Stop trying to push me away.”

“I do not _try_, Highness. The decision has been made.” Saurfang straightened up, casting a menacing glare at the guards who had, at some point during their confrontation, gathered around with swords in hand.

Anduin blinked and looked at them. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Back away and put your weapons down before I have you all sent to the Stockade!”

The guards heeded his command, but they moved slowly, exchanging wary glances with one another as they reluctantly obeyed. Anduin turned back to Saurfang to find him smiling bitterly. “So much for _peace_,” he said.

“Give it time, Warchief,” Anduin pleaded. He was still furious, still intent on wringing an apology from the stubborn orc, but he could not allow him to simply give up now, either. They’d come too far. “They will come around. My father as well, he simply needs to see what it is I’ve seen.”

“I have no intention of wasting any more of my time on this misguided experiment.”

Anduin reached out as he had in Ironforge. “Please,” he said, “for me—”

“I have done _enough_ for you,” Saurfang growled, thrusting his hand away. This time there was a warning in his tone that Anduin was wise enough to heed.

Anduin swallowed hard and nodded, finding a spot low on the wall to stare at instead of looking at Saurfang. He feared that if he did he might let everything he was feeling, all his hurt and hopes and silly desires, come pouring out. He had suffered enough humiliation and pain for one evening. “I’ll see to it my father honors his agreement to return us to Durotar in the morning,” he said, still hoping that he might salvage something from the wreckage of the evening.

“No need, Highness.” Anduin lifted his head in surprise, but Saurfang was watching something further up the hall, over Anduin’s shoulder. Anduin turned to find Khadgar striding toward them on his way out of the keep. “Archmage,” Saurfang called out to him, “I could use your assistance returning to Orgrimmar.” Without so much as a glance at Anduin, he muttered, “_Alone_.”

Khadgar, who Anduin knew had a vested interest in seeing the Horde and Alliance sustain a lasting peace, hesitated. He looked from Saurfang to Anduin, clearly unsure of the consequences of granting such a request. At last he let out a small sigh and inclined his head respectfully. “Certainly, Warchief,” he said. With a quick gesture he cast a portal, shimmering blue against the light gray stone of the castle.

Saurfang stepped through, and Khadgar dismissed the portal again before Anduin could so much as lift a foot to follow.

“Khadgar, please—” Anduin tried to say, but he was cut off by a gesture from the mage.

“Perhaps what you both need most right now is space,” he said. “And a chance to lick your respective wounds.”

Anduin would have argued that he was the only one with wounds at the moment, but he had a feeling any argument he offered would fall on deaf ears. “I can’t get back to Orgrimmar safely on my own, Khadgar. Please. It’s where I belong.”

Khadgar gave him a pitying look, and Anduin bit back on a snarl of his own. He had no need for anyone’s pity! He almost said as much, but the archmage continued speaking, still in the same even, damnably reasonable tone. “I will return in two weeks’ time,” he said. “If you still wish to go to Orgrimmar then, I will bring you myself. Is that acceptable?”

It was the best option Anduin had under the circumstances. He nodded grudgingly, with enough grace not to let the mage see how impatient he really was. Khadgar offered him one final, respectful bow, and continued on his way out of the keep, leaving Anduin alone in the hall with the guards. They had all returned to their stations once Saurfang was gone, and Anduin couldn’t help but feel resentful. Saurfang had done nothing to them—nothing to anyone in the keep, save Anduin himself.

He sighed and brushed his hand through his hair to smooth it out. He was profoundly unhappy, torn between his father and his mate, wronged by both and left with no recourse but to sit and wait for one or both to come to their senses. A feat he hardly believed either might manage on their own. When Khadgar returned in two weeks, Anduin would be ready to confront the warchief. He hoped to have extracted an apology and a promise of better effort in the future from his father in the meantime.

But just in case hope wasn’t enough, he said a quick prayer to the Light for guidance, and a bit of calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Shaw, sitting quietly at the end of the table: "Boy this steak is good. Did anyone else like the steak? I liked the steak."
> 
> You guys had to know that something bad was going to happen. One of them finds out the other likes them only halfway through? C'mon son.
> 
> Also, we finally broke 50k! I have a lot of plans for upcoming chapters that should push the word count closer to the goal of 100,000 much faster. Additionally, next chapter will be a bit of a break from the one-chapter-one-POV format, and will be split between Anduin and Saurfang's perspectives halfway through.
> 
> **News!** There is now a (permanent) [discord server for this ship](https://discord.gg/bJ2JQSx). Please feel free to stop by, even if you only feel like lurking and enjoying the NSFW art. Come get beat by me at trivia.


	10. Yes, That's Going to Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned this in my February soulmates challenge, but yesterday it came down to a choice between updating this fic, and getting the new daily short story done. I chose this. Apologies to anyone waiting on the other.
> 
> By the way, just for this chapter I'm splitting the story between each of their perspectives. Next chapter will go back to just one.

Saurfang leaned on his fist and sighed as he listened to the meandering report from the blood guard. He nodded whenever he thought she had paused long enough that he might be expected to answer, not really listening to anything she said. His thoughts were a thousand miles away, in Stormwind, with his mate.

He had no real right to call Anduin by that title anymore, not after what he had done.

Khadgar’s portal had deposited him only a few feet from where he now sat in Grommash Hold, much to the shock of his advisers. He was noticeably alone, and when one unfortunate blood elf had inquired after the prince, Saurfang had nearly taken the fool’s head off. But after climbing the steps to his quarters and washing himself clean of the human stink of Stormwind, his anger had begun to fade. It left him with nothing but the shreds of his pride and the abrupt and powerful knowledge that he had made a terrible mistake.

He had allowed anger to overcome his reason, and left Stormwind having more or less destroyed any chance of there being a lasting peace. Not that Varian damned Wrynn hadn’t done just as much if not more to see to that on his end, but Saurfang had known better. _Should_ have known better. Worse still, he’d lashed out at Anduin, using him against his father and then turning on him.

In the wake of his receding temper he’d begun to remember some of what he said, and it was enough to leave him groaning into his own palm. Varian had deserved his fury, and certainly Greymane and Lady Proudmoore had done their part to stoke the fires as well. But Anduin had only tried to put an end to it. He had stood up _for_ his warchief, and in turn Saurfang had… Ancestors forgive him, he’d been a monster.

To make matters worse, Saurfang hadn’t slept soundly since his return, tossing and turning on his sleeping furs, wandering the hold in his exhaustion, and always, always passing Anduin’s closed door as quickly as possible. He could still smell the human—his clean, golden hair, his soft pink skin. He could smell the sweat left on the clothing that remained, bearing the dust of Orgrimmar that he’d gathered from his forays into the city. He could smell the charred wood, cold and lonely in the hearth, awaiting its master’s return. Anduin would never come back to Orgrimmar. Not now.

The thought shouldn’t have filled him with such indescribable pain. His chest ached, the heart within tearing itself apart to punish the hot blood that beat through it. Saurfang had done this to himself, but it was no less than he deserved; Anduin had deserved none of it.

Word of the warchief’s unexpected return had swiftly spread beyond the hold, and with it the delectable gossip that he had done so _alone_. Evidently most of Orgrimmar had an opinion on the matter, and by the end of the week he had grown tired of the attempts to cajole the gritty details from him.

One or two of his advisers had been brave enough to openly express their relief, happy that the risk of looking after an Alliance prince would no longer fall to the Horde. But to his surprise, not everyone was pleased to be rid of the lone human among them. In particular the city guards, many of whom had apparently been befriended by Anduin at some point, were quite open in their displeasure. He only knew this after asking Eitrigg why so many of them had pointedly glared at him as he passed by on his morning rounds. It was shameful, perhaps, for a warchief to begin avoiding his own soldiers. Yet after the second time a scarred, red-haired woman with a prominent sneer had spit on the ground after he passed, he’d chosen to simply accept that as a part of his penance, and stay off the wall.

Orgrimmar’s goblins, on the other hand, ever eager to capitalize on any opportunity, had apparently begun a pool to bet on the cause for Anduin’s sudden disappearance. Odds were heavily in favor of the popular theory that Saurfang had murdered him. He tried not to be angry with Gallywix when the trade prince passed along that information.

Less common but by no means rare bets had apparently also been placed on a lover’s quarrel, a family squabble, _bad sex_, and the belief that Anduin had simply run off with someone else. That one was somehow more offensive to Saurfang than the assumption that the prince had left because he was an inadequate lover, if only because it was so well received. Very few of his fellow Horde seemed to have any qualms about speculating on the personal life of their warchief, even when that speculation was far from complimentary.

“As yet we’ve seen no sign of the night elves in the eastern part of Ashenvale, Warchief,” the blood guard informed him, finally wrapping up her report. She thumped her fist against her breastplate and stepped back, making room for Eitrigg in the center of the floor.

“The high chieftain has come,” Eitrigg told him. “He wishes to speak with you in private.”

Saurfang hummed, accepting Baine’s request for an audience, and made a vague gesture to dismiss the others from the room. Blood elves, orcs, and trolls filed out, followed by the goblins, who were almost certainly lingering in the hopes of overhearing something that might fatten their coin purses.

Baine entered a moment later. Eitrigg saw himself out, shutting the doors of the hold behind him.

“Warchief,” Baine greeted him respectfully, hand over his heart and head bowed.

“It’s only us,” Saurfang said, “and I’ve had enough of courtesy to last a lifetime. Speak your mind, friend.”

Baine’s angry snort was not what he expected to follow the invitation to a more informal exchange. “I’ve heard troubling rumors,” he began. His tail flicked wildly behind him, and he anxiously shifted his weight from one hoof to the other. “Borne by traders and travelers from Orgrimmar. It has been a week since your return from the Eastern Kingdoms, and Prince Anduin has not come to join you, as he should.”

Of course. Baine had befriended Anduin some years earlier, in Theramore. Their friendship had managed to outlast numerous clashes between the Horde and the Alliance, carrying on even to the present day. It made sense that he would be concerned on behalf of the prince. Saurfang almost wanted to sigh. He could sense Baine’s agitation, however, and it would do neither of them any good to delay the inevitable. “The rumors are true,” he said.

Baine’s ears perked up in surprise and his eyes grew wide. “Warchief! How could you?” he demanded.

Saurfang sat up straight, frowning at his friend. Surely Baine hadn’t been so invested in Anduin’s continued presence in Orgrimmar? He didn’t covet the prince for _himself_, did he? Wary now of the high chieftain’s motives, he said, “I admit that I acted in haste, but it was Varian Wrynn himself who goaded me to it, Baine. He saw to it that our encounter would end the way it did.”

Baine reared back so hard that he nearly stumbled under the weight of his ancestral totems. “I do not understand. How?” he pressed. “And _why?_”

“He challenged me. Subtly, as humans are so fond of doing.” Far less so by the end, but that had hardly made a difference.

“But the Alliance prince, Saurfang! Was it truly worth a war?”

War over a broken bond hardly seemed likely, even for Varian. Saurfang shrugged one shoulder and said, “I doubt he will commit so much energy to avenging his wounded ego. He may bluster, but he will be answered in kind.”

“How can you possibly think that Wrynn will allow this to go unanswered?”

“I imagine he had grown tired of his son’s fondness for the enemy. This is exactly what he was hoping for, I am certain of it.” Anduin had become quite comfortable among the Horde, and it must have shown during those visits to Stormwind. Saurfang cursed himself. He never should have allowed it.

Then he scoffed bitterly at his own folly; as though Anduin would have ever suffered such restrictions to be placed on him. Saurfang could only imagine that inevitable confrontation, and in spite of his frustration it made him feel unexpectedly wistful.

“Tired enough to look the other way when he is killed?” Baine demanded angrily.

It took Saurfang a moment to realize what he’d said. When he finally did, his entire face felt as though it contorted into a knot. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Baine’s ears flattened against his mane, and his mouth fell open, making him look rather like a startled dairy cow. “You…”

“Did _not_ kill the prince of Stormwind, you fool! Why would you think—why would I slay my own mate?!”

Baine suddenly seemed very embarrassed. Good. “There were rumors that he had displeased you,” he said.

Saurfang laughed bitterly at that. Oh, Anduin had certainly displeased him many times, in many ways, but he knew most of them weren’t intentional. Certainly none were worth his death. Saurfang might have entertained a fantasy or two of more carnal punishments from time to time, though he rather doubted that Anduin would have come away from such a lesson feeling _contrite_.

“Many people have displeased me, Baine. I have yet to lay a hand on most of them.” He could hardly believe that Baine had fallen victim to such outrageous gossip. “You came to Orgrimmar to demand answers over a rumor that I had slain Prince Anduin in a fit of rage, and your only concern was that Varian Wrynn _might_ march against the Horde?” He sat forward on the throne, all humor forgotten for the moment. “Baine, if I had killed his son, I would not have expected to leave Stormwind with my head attached, let alone with the blessings of the archmage to send me back here.”

“It does seem unlikely.”

“And I suspect Lady Proudmoore herself would have already paid me a visit had I dared to lay a hand on her beloved nephew.”

Baine had the courtesy to wince at that. He bowed his head respectfully. “I should not have assumed you would do anything so senseless. My apologies, friend.”

Saurfang waved a hand and sat back again, placing his chin in his palm. “It is hardly settled, however,” he said.

“May I ask what happened?”

He was hesitant to answer, uncertain how much he wanted anyone to know. His own behavior had not been nearly as honorable as he would have preferred, and it shamed him. On the other hand, his silence had hardly seemed to prevent the rumor mill from churning out its usual nonsense. Perhaps it would be best to tell his side of the story.

He began by sparing no detail of Varian’s poor hospitality. Baine listened, and every so often his tail would flick, or his ears would flatten against his head, and Saurfang felt further validated in his anger. There could be no excuse for the remarks Varian and his allies had made, nor the blatant disrespect they had shown to him as both a guest and the warchief of the Horde. Simply recalling what had been said quickened the blood in his veins until it beat at his temples. Curse that fool Varian. He knew better—he had _been there_. He’d seen Saurfang’s grief firsthand. His beloved son’s second death was not a tool that could be used to drive a wedge between himself and Anduin.

Rather, it _shouldn’t_ have been. Despite his anger, Saurfang knew that he had allowed Varian to goad him. He had played into their twisted game as easily as a naive child.  
  
Baine seemed to have already sensed where the story was leading. “But what did you say to _Anduin?_” he asked, crossing his arms.

“I may have…” Saurfang wiped a hand over his face. He could barely bring himself to admit it—further proof that he’d been terribly, terribly wrong. “I told Varian to keep his son.” Baine’s eyes widened. “I refused to allow the prince to come back with me, and I insulted him.”

“Saurfang.”

“I know!” Saurfang snapped. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. The memories were bad enough, but the retelling was far worse, and far more humiliating. “I blamed him.”

“For what?” Baine asked.

“For everything. I blamed him because I—” Because he wanted to harm Varian, as Varian had harmed him. And like Varian, he had used someone innocent of any wrongdoing as his cudgel. Damn his blasted pride. He’d been inexcusably cruel. “I called him a nuisance,” he sighed.

“My friend, you know what you have done,” Baine said, “you have no need of my reprimand.” There was only a subtle hint of reproach in his words. Saurfang found he was almost hoping for more.

“I feel as though I deserve it,” he said.

Baine nodded. “Indeed. But it would only serve to ease your burden if I did so. Now is not the time to wallow in your own guilt.”

He was right. The condemnation Saurfang deserved would come from Anduin, and the apology that was owed would go to him as well. He looked up at Baine and gave his friend a tired half-smile. “You honor me with your counsel, though I know it is for his sake more than mine.”

“It is for both your sakes, Warchief. I consider you and the prince my good friends, and I would not wish to see either of you come to harm, or suffer this unhappiness.”

Anduin certainly deserved no less after the cruelty and humiliation he had been made to suffer. Saurfang let out a long, rumbling hum, and tried to imagine how he would approach his mate to make amends. Assuming he might be _allowed_ to do so, which seemed unlikely. Varian would almost certainly never permit it. He would have to send a courier first, bearing a letter of apology—and an apology for not delivering that apology in person. Spirits, marriage was complicated.

“I don’t suppose you wish to help me compose a message to my mate?” he asked hopefully.

Baine bowed his head and smiled. “Regrettably, Warchief, that is a task that no one else _but_ you may undertake.”

* * *

  
  
Anduin paced, walking the twenty or so steps from one side of his chambers to the other, back and forth, over and over. It had been a week since the dinner. A week since Saurfang had left him in Stormwind, having declared their marriage ended, and returned to Orgrimmar alone. A week of his father’s offhand remarks and obvious attempts to poison Anduin against his own mate. He was beginning to fear he might wear his teeth flat if he didn’t manage to get away soon.

Khadgar had promised to return, but he wouldn’t come for another seven days. That was far too long. Jaina and Genn were both still in Stormwind, and their constant efforts to bring up Saurfang just to run him down were wearing on Anduin’s nerves. Everyone seemed determined to convince him of their opinion, and he had no wish to hear any of it. At first he’d entertained the idea of seeking out Mia to ask for her help with Genn, but he’d dismissed the idea just as quickly; he was a grown man, he could handle his own business. In theory, anyway.

There was a knock at his door, and he stopped his pacing long enough to bark, “Come in!”

A page entered and bowed to him. “Your Highness,” she said, “His Majesty politely requests that you join him for dinner.”

“Tell him I said no.”

“He… anticipated that answer, Prince Anduin, and he said that I should inform you that King Greymane and Lady Proudmoore will not be attending.”

Anduin sighed. “I’m not interested in dining with my father tonight.”

“Forgive me…”

“Let me guess, he anticipated _that_, too?”

She nodded. “I was told to let you know that the king has sent the cooks home to spend the evening with their families, and there will be no meals available to the royal household until morning.”

“Sending me to bed without dinner if I refuse,” Anduin muttered. Wonderful. He could always leave the castle, but that would only create further strife. His father had never been fond of his unchaperoned trips into the city. “Very well, tell him I will be there shortly.”

“Right away,” the page said, following it up with another bow.

The door closed and Anduin sighed deeply. He felt like a prisoner, and yet he was free to go at any time. It was his father who held him down, doing so without uttering a single command, wielding nothing more than guilt with terrible efficiency.

Dinner would be in his father’s chambers. Anduin donned his blue coat and sash and headed for to door. He intended to arrive as early as possible in the hopes of getting the whole ordeal over with faster. But something occurred to him suddenly, and he paused halfway across the threshold.

He _wasn’t_ the prince of Stormwind anymore.

Whirling around, Anduin pulled the sash over his head and tossed it onto a nearby table. Then he shrugged out of the coat and draped it over a chair. He was left in a comfortable pair of leather breeches, boots, and a loose shirt. If his father found his lack of formality offensive, he would simply have to send Anduin away. A missed meal would be well worth sending the message that he was not a _thing_. Not simply an obedient prince to be ordered around, not a mate to be dismissed at will, and not a tool to be wielded against those he cared for.

He made his way to his father’s chambers and rapped his knuckles against the door. “Father, it’s me,” he said.

“Come in,” came the muffled reply from inside the room.

Anduin caught his father’s hesitation as he looked over Anduin’s state of dress, and he bit back on a satisfied smirk. On occasion it was rather satisfying to be a bit petty. “Are you well this evening?” he asked casually.

Varian shook his head and shelved the book he’d been thumbing through. “As well as can be expected. Please, have a seat.”

Anduin looked at the table. “Pork loin, I see. Smells delicious. It’s fortunate the cooks were able to prepare our dinner before they left.” There was bread as well, and wine. A large tureen held what appeared to be stewed vegetables.

“Yes, well, they have worked quite hard lately. Since it’s just the two of us, I saw no need to keep them cooped up in the kitchen for the rest of the evening. Genn and Mia have left for Darnassus.”

Anduin’s relief carried him upright. “And Jaina?” he asked eagerly.

“Left on personal business this afternoon.” When Varian caught the slight quirk at the corner of Anduin’s mouth, he added, “But you know how mages are. She may return at any time.”

It was a subtle game they were playing, each testing the other’s patience, backing off and waiting for the right moment to try again. It was a bit like chess, only the goal was not to take the opponent’s queen, but his conviction. What his father didn’t seem to understand was that Anduin was determined that he would never give in. He could not be worn down, convinced, or shamed into giving up on his mate and his responsibilities.

And he wasn’t very interested in playing chess, either.

“Have you heard anything from Tyrande?” he asked as he cut into the meat on his plate. “Or is that the purpose of Genn and Mia’s visit?”

“They’re in Darnassus at the request of some of their people,” Varian answered. He took a bite and chewed it slowly, as if waiting for Anduin to say something more. When that didn’t happen, he frowned and said, “As for Tyrande, if it’s that damned orc you’re worried about, you’ll be happy to know I’ve heard nothing from Darnassus of any encounters with the Horde in Ashenvale.”

“That must be disappointing for you.”

Varian set his knife and fork down on his plate with enough force to make the glasses rattle. “No, Anduin, I am not _disappointed_ that Alliance lives haven’t been wasted on your misguided attempts to appease your _mate_. Tyrande’s lands and people are her responsibility. If she chooses to honor the agreement you struck on Saurfang’s behalf, that is her choice.”

_Misguided?_ He had _saved_ lives with that bargain! There were Sentinels whose blood would not fertilize the soil of Ashenvale because he acted when it was necessary. Even Saurfang had seen the wisdom of it. Eventually. “Perhaps Tyrande simply understands the benefits of learning to work _with_ the Horde,” he said.

“Tyrande has had to make a great many sacrifices in her time. I don’t doubt she’s willing to put up with a few animals skulking about for the sake of keeping her people safe.”

“I don't appreciate you calling them that.”

Varian resumed eating, but there was no courtesy to it now. He spooned out a helping of vegetables and slapped them onto his plate with a loud _clack_. “I will call them what they are,” he said. He pointed the ladle at Anduin. “Don’t forget that I once fought and bled for their entertainment. I’ve spent more time choking on the dust in Durotar than you ever will, and I know what they’re like.”

“The orcs were—”

“_Don’t_. I was there, Anduin. I _know_.”

Anduin was quiet for several minutes. He ate his dinner slowly, torn between his anger at the unfairness of the situation and his desire to make peace with the only family he had. It was a miserable place to be. After some time had passed he quietly said, “I’ll be leaving next week.”

“Is that so?”

He looked up. “Yes,” he said, only a bit forcefully, “I’ve already told you this. Khadgar has promised to take me back to Orgrimmar.”

“I think you may find the archmage has better things to do than ferry you back and forth across Azeroth.”

Anduin bit the inside of his cheek to keep from doing something rash, and asked, “What have you done?”

“Nothing. I have no need to scheme like some sort of lowlife goblin. Khadgar leads the Council of Six, Anduin. He has no time for your melodramatics.” Varian poured himself the last of the wine. When the bottle ran out he made a disgusted sound and slammed it back down onto the table. “And I think you know that pestering Jaina for help would be incredibly foolish.”

“There are other mages in the city, I—”

His father simply set his mouth in a flat line and sighed through his nose, as though he was trying to explain simple math to a murloc.

“You can’t keep me here.”

“No,” Varian agreed, “not if you truly wish to go. But I can make it very difficult for you to leave.”

Anduin set his silverware down and leaned back with his arms crossed. “So, you’ll separate me from my mate. Then what? Are you planning to marry me off to someone else—Tess, perhaps? That would solve more than one problem for you _and_ Genn. Or do you have some noble’s poor sheltered daughter in mind?”

“You’re being childish and disrespectful.”

“I’m being _honest_. I am married to Warchief Saurfang. I am _mated_ to him. Do you really think he’ll just forget that?”

“_Mated_,” Varian scoffed. “He left you here, Anduin. What will it take for you to see how foolish you’re being? If Saurfang tossing you aside isn’t enough, what can I say that will make it clear?”

“He’ll undoubtedly send for me.”

The disgust that flashed across his father’s face reminded him of their argument in the map room. He’d seen that look too many times since then. “I want you to answer me honestly,” he said. He stood up and made his way over to the window, as though he couldn’t bring himself to be near his own son, to look at him. “Have you…”

“Have I what?”

He looked down at his own hands, clenched on the windowsill. “Have you—damn it all.”

“Father, ask me whatever it is you want to know. I’ll give you an honest answer.”

“Have you _slept_ with him?” Varian demanded, turning around to face Anduin finally. There was fury in his eyes, but also fear. “Has he put his hands on you?”

Now it was Anduin who laughed. “No!” he exclaimed when his father narrowed his eyes, scowling at him. “Father, he’s barely touched me unless it was necessary. Light, he spent the night wandering Ironforge rather than endure sharing a bed with me! Moira’s doing,” he added hastily when his father started to turn red. “And she was only trying to help.”

Varian let out a long breath that he seemed to have been holding in anticipation of Anduin’s reply. “That’s a relief,” he said.

“But I would like him to.”

“Anduin!”

“I am not a cloistered monk, nor am I a child!”

“You are _my_ child!” Varian shouted. “To imagine that—to even _think_ that you would let him—”

“What?” Anduin demanded. He was still seated at the table, hands folded neatly in his lap. “That I would let him have me? Make love to me?” Varian pulled a face and Anduin scoffed. His reaction had all the grace of a petulant child. “A king—”

Varian snarled, “This has nothing to do with being king, and _everything_ to do with protecting you. Not only from Saurfang, but now, it seems, from yourself!”

Anduin finally stood. He wiped his mouth on his cloth napkin and set it on the table beside his plate. “Thank you for your invitation, dinner was lovely,” he said. “Good evening.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to my own chambers,” Anduin said curtly. He took a step and abruptly stopped.

This was not the way he had wanted to end the evening. 

“What you said to Saurfang, about his son…” he said, attempting to keep the cruel words from coloring his own. “It isn’t you. I feel as though we’ve both stepped back into another time, to a point when we couldn’t speak—couldn’t even _listen_ to one another. You told him you would never abandon your child, but that’s what you’re doing right now.”

“I’m—”

“No, I’m not finished.” Anduin turned around and faced his father with a level gaze, fighting back the anger that had been steadily building inside him since that disastrous banquet. “You’re leaving me to solve this myself, to choose when I shouldn’t have to. You’ve disregarded who I am and what I want—what I’ve _told you_ I want—in favor of fighting to save a version of me that doesn’t need saving, because it _doesn’t exist_. I am not helpless, and I am not naive. I _am_ your son, _and_ a grown man more than capable of making my own choices. And I am standing here, begging you to see that, and to accept that I have made the decision to return to Orgrimmar, to the Horde, and resume my place as the warchief’s mate. To believe that you will not lose me if I do.”

He watched his father for a moment that seemed to go on forever, waiting, _praying_ for some sign that he understood.

Finally he spoke. “Anduin…”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes, and Anduin dared to hope it was regret. He would be happy with anything so long as it meant he would no longer be torn between the two halves of his life.

Instead his father only said, “I expect to see you for breakfast in the morning.” Then he promptly turned away again, back to the window, and Anduin knew that he had been dismissed.

  
Anduin walked back to his chambers feeling numb. He couldn’t seem to focus, couldn’t catch his breath. He acknowledged the guards as he passed, but the gesture was mechanical, thoughtless. He was barely aware of their presence.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind him finally pulled him back into the moment, and he blinked at the familiar sight of his room; the table and the books piled atop it, the writing desk. It was familiar enough, but not really _home_. Not any longer. Now his home had a bed too low to the floor, hides hanging upon the walls, and a stone hearth with spikes for no reason at all.

He made a decision.

There was very little to be packed. Most of the clothing he had brought with him was of a more formal sort, meant to be worn in Ironforge, rather than Orgrimmar. He wouldn’t need any of it, and so he only filled his travel bag with a few shirts and some extra pants. After doing a quick turn around the room he added a second pair of boots, a blanket, and whatever else he thought he might wish to take with him. He did not anticipate returning for the rest any time soon.

The guards continued to dip their heads and salute as he passed, but this time Anduin ignored them. He made his way out of the keep, through the courtyard, ignoring the watchman as he marched across the drawbridge and out into the city. If anyone had thought to follow him, they would have to track him through the busy streets from that point, and he was undoubtedly far quicker on his feet in a snarl than most of his father’s men.

His horse, Reverence, was stabled by the barracks in Old Town. Anduin made his way there in record time, faster than he was certain he had ever done as a boy. He prompted a stable hand to saddle the stallion for him, taking the reins the second they were pressed into his hand. In moments he was making his way through the city, the next best thing to anonymous unless anyone cared to look closely. All the barding and pompous decoration had been left behind in the stables; at a glance he would appear to be nothing more than a young man on a white horse. Someone who perhaps looked a bit like the prince. He doubted anyone would try to stop him, or that his father had even been informed of his leaving the castle. The guards were used to seeing him come and go.

The bridge that crossed the Valley of Heroes was packed despite the hour, and throngs of travelers, traders with their carts, and visitors to the city made the journey to the gates slower than Anduin would have liked. If by some chance his father had previously notified the guards at the gate not to allow the prince to leave—and it was only too likely that he had, given his implicit threat at dinner—he would have a difficult time avoiding them.

But his luck held. No one bothered to give him so much as a second glance. Anduin passed beneath the stone arch and its lion banners, urging Reverence to a quick canter once the road had widened enough. The white horse tossed his head, and Anduin gave him a pat on the side of his neck. “You’re excited to be out right now,” he told the stallion, “but you may not be so happy with me come this time tomorrow.” They had a great deal of distance to cover, and he had no intention of stopping for some time.

He rode until well after dark, when the need for a break finally became too pressing to ignore. With a soft click he guided Reverence off the road and down to a softly sloping embankment beside the river. They still had most of the journey ahead of them, but he was sore from so many hours in the saddle, and tired enough that he could excuse himself a few minutes of rest. He had every intention of crossing Duskwood and into Northern Stranglethorn before he stopped for the night.

It was risky, traveling south into the jungle. He might have been better off returning by tram to Ironforge, and either asking Moira for help traveling north, or taking the road through the Wetlands himself. But while he was almost certain Moira would do everything in her power to assist him, Anduin had far less confidence that Muradin would do the same, or even simply stand by and do nothing at all. The dwarven thane had far too much respect for Anduin’s father, and would just as likely send for him, or do his best to hold Anduin in Ironforge until he arrived on his own. Anduin couldn’t allow that to happen.

Just as foolish would have been to set out from Stormwind and ride north through Redridge. Even if he made it through the Burning Steppes, which he thought might take some sort of miracle, he was faced with passing through Blackrock Mountain to reach the far more dangerous Searing Gorge. There was a very good reason the gnomes had built the Deeprun Tram. That reason was many miles of lava fields, vicious creatures, and furious elementals. He had enough to contend with at the moment without adding burns and the serious possibility of death to that list.

Though it was by no means _safe_, Stranglethorn was at least a well-charted route south. He could follow the same road until he reached Booty Bay, and then book passage across the sea to Ratchet. From there it was only a few hours’ ride north to Durotar, and his home.

And his mate.

He was certain Saurfang would be furious when he showed up at the gates demanding to be allowed in. He might even refuse him entry. While Anduin did not fear that the grunts would harm him, he had no real interest in camping outside the walls of the city, and doubted that his dignity would abide it either.

Still, it was better than remaining in Stormwind for another week, forced to endure day after day of his father’s endless vitriol. Anduin had journeyed to Darnassus and back, negotiating a groundbreaking new accord between the night elves and the Horde all in a single day. He could make his own way back to Orgrimmar just as easily.

Well, perhaps not _as_ easily. He’d had portals to assist him then. In hindsight, he realized, it may have been a far better idea to have had a mage portal him to Darnassus, where a boat would take him to Darkshore. But then he probably wouldn’t have been able to take Reverence, and he liked the thought of a journey from Auberdeen to Orgrimmar on foot even less than attempting to traverse the jungle on his own. He knew better than to ask Tyrande for the loan of a nightsaber, given where he was headed. She had proved more tolerant than his father, but she wasn’t a fool.

He was just about to climb back into the saddle, ignoring the protesting ache in his thighs, when a sound in the nearby brush caught his attention. He carefully walked around to the other side of the horse, keeping an eye out for any sign of danger. The rustling had come from somewhere behind them, but he saw no sign of anything or any_one_ nearby. Not even a frog sat perched on the riverbank.

Perhaps it was only his nerves. He had more or less run away from home after all. It was galling to think that he had been forced to take such measures just to return to his rightful place beside his mate. That his own father thought he could keep him like some maiden in a tower, awaiting a knight.

He kicked a stone into the river with a half-muttered curse. Reverence whinnied and took a few steps back, ears pinned. “Sorry,” Anduin said, combing his fingers through Reverence’s long mane. He had been letting his temper get the better of him lately. Perhaps some of that could be attributed to his time in Orgrimmar—time spent growing accustomed to the more brusque ways of the Horde—but he knew in his heart that it had more to do with his father and Saurfang than anything else. He thought that if just one of them could manage to see reason, to keep calm, there was a chance the other might eventually come around. But they both seemed intent on butting heads, endlessly antagonizing one another. The posturing and backhanded remarks had been bad enough in Orgrimmar, but during the dinner his father had crossed a line that Anduin wasn’t certain he could ever step back over again. Some things simply couldn’t be forgiven, and Saurfang was not the sort of man to make exceptions.

Another sound from the brush drew him back to the present, and he turned, his back to Reverence as he peered through the darkness. He called upon just enough of the Light’s favor to cast a small, glowing ball above his hand, illuminating the immediate area. As it turned out, he needn’t have bothered. Outside the soothing golden glow of the light, their green eyes luminous all on their own, stood two blood elves.

Anduin tensed, and then he abruptly recalled that he had seen them both before, in Orgrimmar. “You’re my escorts,” he said, lowering his hand. The light winked out.

One of the blood elves looked to her companion. She stepped forward and bowed. “Your Highness,” she said, “we’ve come to escort you.”

“You’re here to take me back to Orgrimmar?”

The other elf, an older man with a wing of grey in his dark hair, said, “You belong with the Horde, Prince Anduin.”

Well, he certainly couldn’t argue with that. But what were they doing in Elwynn? Peace wasn’t so recent that Horde soldiers—armed Horde soldiers, he noted—could freely travel in Alliance lands without considerable risk to their safety. People simply weren’t that open minded yet. “Were you following me?”

“We have been keeping an eye on you, Highness,” the woman said. She had long red hair, braided neatly and draped over her shoulder. It reminded him a bit of Saurfang’s braid, and he frowned at the wistful feeling that came over him.

“I really would like to get back there,” he said. “Your assistance would be appreciated.” He refrained from asking if the warchief himself had sent them, or if they had simply seen his retrieval as a natural extension of their previous duties. Perhaps they didn’t know that Saurfang had claimed to have no interest in seeing Anduin ever again. Either way it seemed wiser not to push his luck by broaching the topic with either of them.

The second elf offered him an elegant bow. “Of course, Prince Anduin. I will conjure a portal for you at once.” So, he was a mage. That was convenient.

“My horse,” Anduin said. He half-turned to gather Reverence’s reins. “I’d like to take him with me.” He was certain the stallion could find his own way back into the city without trouble, but it was only too easy to imagine what his father would make of the discovery of Anduin’s horse, riderless and alone, wandering through Elwynn.

“I see no reason your mount cannot be accommodated as well,” the mage said. As promised, he cast a portal, much broader and wider than most Anduin had seen. Reverence would be able to pass through easily.

“Thank you.”

“Please, the pleasure is mine,” the mage said with a smile.

The woman stepped through first, disappearing into the whirl of arcane energy and shimmering light. Anduin pulled Reverence along behind him and followed.


	11. That Poor Horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was so much fun! I really liked seeing everyone's thoughts about what might have happened at the end of chapter ten. I hope you enjoy the answer!
> 
> Before we get started though I did want to say something, a bit of a PSA: I've been noticing a lot of people apologizing for commenting on fics that are anywhere from 4 to 6 months old or older, saying it's late to be leaving a comment. **It is never too late to leave a comment.**
> 
> I feel like social media has given people this impression that if you're looking at older work it's somehow creepy. That couldn't be further from the truth. Even if someone isn't happy with their older writing, or doesn't answer, it doesn't mean a comment isn't appreciated! There are popular novels that are decades old. A story is a story. So please, please, do not hesitate to show love to the writers whose works you enjoy months or even years after they've been written. You never know what it might inspire them to do, or what it might mean.
> 
> 💕

“Welcome, Your Highness.”

Anduin took in the subdued blues and bright scarlets of the room, the gossamer curtains draping every wall, hanging from the ceiling in long, shimmering loops. There were cushions arranged in a semicircle, and the carpet below his feet was remarkably plush.

It seemed the elves of Silvermoon did not deny themselves of luxury, despite their many hardships. “Regent Lord,” Anduin said. He bent a bit at the waist, bowing without taking his eyes from the blood elf. “I admit, this isn’t where I expected to find myself when I exited the portal.”

Reverence, who had come through with him, was still outside. Anduin wondered how his poor horse was faring after the abrupt change in location. It was probably for the best that the mage had deposited them both just _outside_ the door to the opulent chamber, and not within.

“I apologize for the deception, but under the circumstances I felt it was necessary.”

“And what circumstances might those be?” Anduin asked. He thought he heard a bit of Saurfang’s influence in his tone, and it pleased him. Lor’themar was, after all, a subject of his mate. Anduin had no reason to expect anything less than his utmost respect.

“Why, the dissolution of your marriage to Warchief Saurfang,” Lor’themar said, abruptly toppling all of Anduin’s hopes and expectations in a single blow. “And the end of this latest short-lived peace between the Horde and the Alliance.”

“The warchief hasn’t—”

“The warchief has made his feelings on the matter quite clear, Your Highness.” Lor’themar’s single eye narrowed as he smirked down at the human prince. “I am not often given to gloating, but I knew it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. What sort of match could an orc—a veteran of numerous wars and warchief of the Horde—truly find in a human prince? You have nothing in common. At best this entire arrangement has been a farce.”

But that wasn’t true at all. There was _something_ there. Anduin thought of Ironforge; of the orphanage, and how gentle Saurfang had been with the children; how he’d thrown himself into a frozen lake to save Anduin’s life; and his warmth and wry humor. Even though he had never said it, Anduin knew the warchief was truly pleased by what he had done in Darnassus, as well. He’d seen it in the way Saurfang softened toward him over the weeks that followed, and in how patient and open he had become. Surely that wasn’t just his way?

Lor’themar went on, drawing Anduin’s attention away from his own wounded pride and hurt feelings.

“Sure in my suspicions, I made certain to keep an eye on you,” the regent lord said. “And now it seems those precautions I took have finally borne fruit.”

Keep an eye on him…? But—

Anduin groaned quietly. Suddenly it all made terrible sense; the blood elves weren’t his escorts, they were his _abductors_. Spies hiding in plain sight, meant to snatch him up at the first sign of trouble. Saurfang had insisted that Anduin was safe in Orgrimmar, and he must have truly believed it. So much so, in fact, that he had never assigned anyone to watch him.

But Lor’themar had.

“So, I’m going to be your hostage, then?” Anduin asked. “A pawn, to be leveraged against my father?”

“If it should come to that, yes,” Lor’themar answered evenly. “Rest assured, you will be treated well, Highness. We are not animals.”

“Then return me to Orgrimmar.”

Lor’themar at least had the grace not to feign surprise at his demand. “You know I cannot do that,” he said.

“Because Saurfang gave my father his word that I would be returned to the Alliance if anything should go wrong.”

“Precisely.” Lor’themar took a seat upon a velvet settee, neatly folding his hands over his lap. He was a study in grace. “You see, while the agreement over your custody in just such an event was struck in good faith, I’m afraid it was rather shortsighted on our warchief’s part. Saurfang is an honorable man, and a strong leader. But his honor is also his weakness. He would keep to that agreement, even in the event of war, and the Horde would lose its greatest asset.”

“Me.”

“You,” Lor’themar agreed. “Simply put, Prince Anduin, you are insurance. Your father will never march north to Quel’Thalas so long as you are safely within our grasp.”

Anduin would have argued that Lor’themar might wish to speak with Moira if he believed holding Varian Wrynn’s son hostage would prevent action against his people. But it seemed unlikely he would listen, given his position so far. “The warchief will never stand for this,” he said.

“The warchief does not need to know. No one needs to know, until such time as it becomes necessary to reveal your presence here in Silvermoon. By then Saurfang will have no choice but to accept that keeping you here is the only rational assurance against your father’s aggression.”

“Keeping me prisoner will _ensure_ that my father will go to war, not prevent it. You might avoid a conflict if you let me go now. I won’t tell anyone about this, or our conversation,” Anduin promised him. “This peace can still be salvaged.” He hoped. If he could just _speak_ to Saurfang, make him see reason…

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Lor’themar said. “While Orgrimmar may be willing to extend its trust in the name of mutual necessity, we in Silvermoon have learned a much different lesson from our dealings with your people.”

“You haven’t dealt with me,” Anduin pleaded with him.

The regent lord only smiled. “Well, Highness, you and I shall have ample time to rectify that oversight.”

  
Anduin spent the next six days in Silvermoon, ostensibly a guest of the regent lord, but much more clearly a prisoner. In that time he wandered the city, getting to know the many streets and alleyways, all the different gathering places, and even some of the people—much as he had done in Orgrimmar. There was little else he _could_ do. They had taken Reverence to be stabled somewhere outside of the city, but Anduin knew better than to ask if he might be allowed to visit him any time soon.

He was shadowed at all times by armed guards, though no longer the same two elves who had taken him from Elwynn. It seemed now that they had him, they were keen to _keep_ him, and they had taken every effort to ensure that he would remain firmly under their control. Anduin thought the new ones must be blood knights, based on their black tabards and shimmering plate. Like the others, they kept their distance, and made no real effort to engage with him even (and especially) when he tried to speak to them.

In fact, apart from Lor’themar, no one really spoke with him at all. His observations of the people of Silvermoon were just that—observations. His meals were provided for him, his clothes were washed and returned dried before he could ask for any sort of assistance, and his room was tidied and his bath prepared before he returned every evening. He was entirely isolated, surrounded by an entire city.

It was rather depressing, really.

To make matters worse, all his efforts to convince the regent lord of his good will had fallen on deaf ears, just as he’d suspected they would. Lor’themar would simply change the subject, or expertly redirect Anduin’s comments and distract him with something else. It was frustrating, and he strongly considered simply giving up. Surely _someone_ would come looking for him sooner or later. Near-total isolation in Silvermoon couldn’t be _that_ bad. He simply had to endure, for however long it took.

But as the days crept on, Anduin found himself growing increasingly anxious. He began to doubt whether or not anyone would actually come, and whether they might even consider looking for him in Silvermoon. His father must have known he left on his own. There were more than enough city guards to vouch for having seen a young man who resembled the prince riding by on a white horse. Would they have gone on to search the roads?

It seemed the only way anyone might ever know where he was, apart from a lucky guess, was if the Alliance declared war on the Horde. That was the last thing he wanted.

There was a knock at his door, and that alone was strange enough that it startled him out of his thoughts. Just as they largely ignored him, no one ever came calling, either. “Yes?” he called to the visitor.

From the other side of the door he heard an elf’s muffled Common. “Prince Anduin, the regent lord has requested your presence.”

_Requested_, Anduin had learned very quickly, was the sin’dorei way of saying _demanded_. He sighed and got up from the chair where he was sitting by the window. It was a lovely day; he’d always been told that Quel’Thalas was unparalleled in its beauty, truly magnificent to behold. It was a shame he would apparently only ever see that splendor from within the city walls.

He followed his escort to the regent lord’s receiving chamber. What he found there was not at all what he expected. In fact, if he had been given ten opportunities to guess what he might find upon arriving, he was certain he _still_ would have been wrong.

Lor’themar waited in the center of the room, as usual, flanked by his advisers and protected by his spellbreaker guards. But before him stood not some Alliance envoy come to bargain on his behalf, nor a Kor’kron, as Anduin might have hoped. Instead, he found himself facing the dark, eerily elegant figure of the Banshee Queen, Sylvanas Windrunner.

Anduin slowed and came to a stop well away from the Forsaken ruler. She was alone, and appeared unarmed, but that was never quite the case with her. He knew better than to tempt fate.

“Prince Anduin,” Lor’themar said. He did not actually sound pleased by Anduin’s prompt response to his summons, and Anduin couldn’t help but wonder if it had even been his idea in the first place.

Sylvanas turned on her heel, moving so silently that she might as well have been the wind. Her lips curled into a wicked smile, and her eyes seemed to smolder like a banked fire. If he didn’t know any better, Anduin might have thought she was genuinely happy to see him. “Ah, Your Royal Highness,” she said. The strange reverberation of her voice was only somewhat subdued by the curtains that hung about the room like a morning mist. “I am pleased to see that you don’t appear to have suffered any ill effects from your unfortunate captivity.”

“Sylvanas,” Lor’themar hissed, “you know as well as I do that the Undercity will be the first stop on their march north. Do not be be a fool, you—”

“I would advise you not to finish that sentence, Regent Lord,” Sylvanas warned. Her eyes were still locked with Anduin’s, unblinking, and almost hypnotic in their ruby gaze. “You have taken our warchief’s mate against his will, behind the warchief’s back. You were even so bold as to abduct him from _Alliance lands_. I’m certain you know that these are grave charges.”

“I have done what is best for my people,” Lor’themar insisted, holding his head up high.

Sylvanas turned back to him, an ugly sneer on her face. “You have risked plunging the Horde into another war. I will not have my people become fodder for a conflict ignited solely by your paranoia!”

“It is prudence, Sylvanas, not paranoia.”

“I doubt the warchief will see the difference,” she snarled darkly. Raising her voice for all in the room to hear, she commanded, “Hand the boy over to me, and I will see him safely back to Orgrimmar. I will also have word sent to his father that he is alive and well, so as to avoid any further _misunderstandings_.”

Anduin could hardly believe what he was hearing. Sylvanas had come to Silvermoon… _to rescue him?_

“I will do no such thing,” Lor’themar snapped. “Saurfang would see him returned to Stormwind, and then where will we be? Empty-handed when the Alliance inevitably turns its eye on our lands. It is suicide to give the boy back to the warchief _or_ the Alliance!”

“Varian Wrynn would have little reason to look this way unless you did something incredibly foolish, such as _abducting his son_. Give the prince to me, or I will return, and I give you my word, I will _not_ come alone when I do.”

Lor’themar scoffed. “More of your Dark Rangers, I suppose?”

Anduin looked around, almost expecting to see the undead elven archers tucked away within the shadows, but there were none. At least, none that he could see.

Sylvanas sounded very pleased indeed when she replied, “The warchief himself, Regent Lord. If you will not see reason here and now, I will take steps to force your hand. Make your choice.”

Lor’themar stared at her for what felt like an eternity, and then finally he relented. “Have his horse saddled and his things brought from his chambers,” he barked, directing the instructions to one of the waiting guards. He turned his eye on Sylvanas once more and said, “I hope you know what it is you are doing, Lady Windrunner.”

“A much better job of saving your people than you,” Sylvanas purred smugly.

  
Reverence was indeed saddled and waiting when Anduin—following mutely behind Sylvanas Windrunner—exited the city. He was immediately bombarded by the eternal autumn splendor of Quel’Thalas, and it was so startlingly vivid and lovely that he couldn’t keep the smile from his face—

At least, until he caught sight of the host of waiting Forsaken steeds, and the dark figure of Nathanos Blightcaller leading them. They stood out against the rich hues of the forest, dark and forboding, stark against the peaceful landscape.

“My Lady,” Blightcaller said, greeting Sylvanas as she sauntered up to her own mount. She took the reins when he offered them, swinging up onto the skeletal horse’s back as though it had all the same flesh as a live one.

Fortunately for Anduin, Reverence was too well trained, and too accustomed to the oddities of Azeroth, to be spooked by their presence. He took the stallion’s reins, checked that his pack was securely strapped in place, and swung his leg up over the saddle as Sylvanas had done.

“Did the regent lord have some sort of enchantment placed on the boy?” Blightcaller inquired. He looked down on Anduin as though he were little more than a mildly fascinating insect. “Well? Can you speak?”

“I can speak,” Anduin said.

Blightcaller chuckled. “Pity, it might have been more amusing had they cut out your tongue.”

Anduin ignored him. He gave Reverence’s flank a tap, urging the stallion to ride up beside Sylvanas. “Lady Windrunner,” he said, dipping his chin respectfully. “Thank you for your intervention on my behalf.”

“I can see that you have doubts as to its sincerity, Little Lion.”

Anduin cringed inwardly at the nickname. He wasn’t fond of hearing it in her mouth, but he had no grounds to ask her to stop, either. Not after her timely assistance—if it was truly assistance at all. “No, of course not, I would never—”

“Rest assured, Your Highness, I have every intention of doing exactly as I have said. You will be delivered to Orgrimmar swiftly and safely, and your father will have no cause to trample the Undercity beneath his boot on the long march to retrieve you.” She smiled at him again, and this time it was far more predatory and calculating. More like what he expected of the Banshee Queen. “I trust you find that agreeable.”

“Of course,” Anduin said. He was still rather uneasy about the strange circumstances, and he was certain Sylvanas could sense that. Fortunately she did not remark on it further.

“We will ride south to Tirisfal,” she informed him, easily changing the subject. “The journey should take no less than two days.”

“We would be there in a day if not for the need to stop and _rest_,” Blightcaller muttered behind them.

Anduin knew he was being blamed for that delay; the Forsaken required no rest, and neither, he imagined, did their mounts. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said diplomatically. “If not for Reverence, I would suggest we push on through the night, but I’m afraid it would be harmful to him.”

“On the contrary, Your Highness,” Sylvanas said, “you may find the inconvenience to be entirely your own. Our route to the Undercity will take us directly through the Plaguelands. That is also where we will stop to make camp.”

Anduin tried not to look as unsettled by that as he was. Though the Western Plaguelands had been largely reclaimed through the tireless efforts of druidic magic, the Eastern Plaguelands were still more or less a wasteland. A very dangerous wasteland for living humans such as himself. The Argent Dawn had posts stationed throughout, but for those miles between he would be entirely at the mercy of the Forsaken who accompanied him.

It seemed he was unsuccessful in hiding his discomfort, however; Sylvanas smirked and said, “Do not worry, Prince Anduin. You will be well protected while you rest.”

An offer of comfort from Sylvanas Windrunner was surreal enough that Anduin actually found it a bit worrying. He wanted to trust her—he wanted to trust everyone, really. Experience, however, had made him cautious. At least he could count on one thing to work to his advantage: “My father spoke very highly of your valor on the Broken Shore, Lady Windrunner,” he said earnestly. “I’m honored to have the opportunity to witness it firsthand.”

Behind him Blightcaller snorted, but Anduin ignored him. Sylvanas, at least, seemed pleased, if still strangely unreadable in other ways. “Nathanos,” she said.

Anduin heard a grunt of acknowledgement from the Forsaken archer. “Get moving!” Blightcaller shouted to the foot soldiers and Dark Rangers that made up the rest of their party. “We ride for the Undercity.” He cast a condescending sneer at Anduin over his shoulder, adding, “The _prince_ must be returned to his rightful place at the warchief’s side.”

Anduin pretended not to notice his disdain, and only smiled politely. _The sooner the better,_ he thought to himself.

  
They were well into the foul and decaying depths of the Plaguelands when night began to fall. Anduin thought perhaps it came swifter in the midst of the Scourge-infested lands, but dismissed that as his imagination. They stopped at an abandoned farmstead, its fences torn down and fields overgrown with blighted vegetation. Bones littered the ground, and the windows and doors of the manor house hung lazily on their hinges, or not at all.

Still, it was better than an open field or a plagued wood, he supposed.

He tied Reverence by the front door, as close to him as he could manage. The Dark Rangers and Forsaken soldiers fanned out in every direction, forming a perimeter that Anduin doubted any creature might cross safely, living or dead. In the very center was the house, and within it stood Anduin, Sylvanas, and Blightcaller.

Blightcaller dropped the load of firewood that he had collected on their way in. “I hope these accommodations meet with your _approval_, Highness,” he said.

“It’s quite… cozy,” Anduin replied neutrally.

Blightcaller _hmphed_ and shouldered past him on his way to the hearth. From the doorway Sylvanas chuckled and said, “I suggest you remain on the lower level of the house, Little Lion. There is no telling what might come seeking shelter through the open windows come nightfall.”

That left Anduin wondering how safe he might be _anywhere_ within the manor’s walls. He almost said as much when a scoff from Blightcaller stopped him. “My lady, the purpose of this… _delay_… is to allow the boy his rest,” he said, feigning concern. “It won’t do to frighten him so much that he cannot sleep.” He had a cruel smile on his grayed lips, and a gleam in his red eyes that hinted at far too much amusement for Anduin’s liking.

“Thank you for your concern,” Anduin said, aiming his own hollow smile at the Forsaken. “But I have not been a boy for some time, and I’ve learned to accept nightmares as a necessary part of life.” He really was growing tired of everyone—from his father to his mate—speaking of him and treating him as if he were still a child.

But Blightcaller only chuckled, stoking the slowly growing fire with one of his arrows. He did not bother to acknowledge Anduin’s remarks, which was mildly infuriating. It reminded him a bit too much of trying to deal with Lor’themar. Somehow, Anduin doubted that Blightcaller would appreciate the comparison, however.

Sylvanas smiled fondly at Blightcaller’s rather cruel teasing. “My Forsaken have secured the farmstead,” she said, turning back to Anduin. “But for your peace of mind, we will remain here while you sleep.”

That seemed rather counterproductive to a good night’s rest, in Anduin’s opinion, but he kept the thought to himself. Insulting Sylvanas certainly wouldn’t endear him to her. Though, to be fair, he wasn’t certain what he’d done to earn her… well, it wasn’t _respect_, but her attention, at least. She claimed it was in the interest of preventing another war between the Horde and the Alliance, but why now? She never seemed to have minded the conflict much before.

“I can see that you have questions,” she purred, watching him from where she leaned against the door, arms crossed. “Ask.”

“No, not at all, I…” Anduin wanted to choose his next words carefully. Perhaps Sylvanas _wanted_ his honesty. Lying wouldn’t get him anywhere, in that case. “I simply find it odd, that’s all.”

“Odd that I would travel to Quel’Thalas to rescue you from Lor’themar’s clutches?”

He hardly considered himself to be in anyone’s _clutches_—more like a highly inconvenienced royal hostage. But he kept that to himself as well. “Forgive me, yes. I’ve never known you to be among the voices in the Horde calling for peace.”

“The Legion’s return changed a great many things, Little Lion. Surely the high king must have told you of his battles alongside Horde banners. Or spoken of the Horde’s contribution to that conflict, even if you did not experience it yourself.”

Not for lack of trying, anyway. Anduin had practically _begged_ his father to allow him to accompany the third wave of soldiers to the Broken Isles. He was a strong healer, skilled in the Light and trained to defend himself and others in a conflict. He could have saved lives. But his father wouldn’t hear of it; he’d all but set guards to Anduin to keep him from attempting to leave Stormwind.

“He did,” Anduin answered. “And I’ve heard stories from many others, as well. But fighting together to defend Azeroth’s very existence is a far cry from coexisting peacefully. Certainly it would be better for the Horde if the Alliance was no longer a threat at all.”

That made Sylvanas laugh. “Have you truly turned your back on your people, then?” she asked. “My, the warchief certainly is persuasive, isn’t he.” She came over to sit on the stairs, wedged between one rail and the other with her legs crossed at the knee. “Peace,” she said, enunciating the Common for his benefit, “neutralizes the Alliance threat, Prince Anduin. And it does not require that I waste the lives of my people to achieve it. At least, not since Warchief Saurfang came up with this rather brilliant arrangement.”

“So, you do approve of the marriage?”

“Oh, I approve,” she said. Her smile grew a little _too_ wide, almost wicked. “And I believe you are just as keen to repair whatever damage was wrought by your father, and resume your place at your mate’s side.”

“You know about that?” Anduin asked, surprised. His voice was higher than he would have liked, and he cleared his throat and asked, “How?”

“Lor’themar Theron is not the only one with spies at his disposal, Little Lion. I too have been monitoring events as they unfold.”

“You had someone following me?”

“What an outrageous accusation,” Blightcaller groused. “The Banshee Queen has saved your life, you impudent whelp—”

“I hardly think the regent lord intended to _kill me_,” Anduin pointed out. A slow death by boredom, perhaps, but certainly nothing more sinister.

“Indeed.” Sylvanas stood and made her way over to lean against another wall. She seemed restless, and he wondered if it was something all Forsaken experienced, or it was particular to her, and the context of their discussion. “Lor’themar is a fool, but wise enough to know better,” she said. “He would not have harmed you. Regardless, he could not be allowed to _keep you_, either.”

“Well, I am certainly grateful,” Anduin admitted. “You said that you would let my father know?”

“He has already been informed,” Sylvanas said. “I sent word to him before I left the Undercity.”

“You were so certain Lor’themar would release me?”

“I was certain he was not willing to risk that I might go to the warchief. Whatever Saurfang’s grievances with the king—and they are no doubt considerable, to have prompted him to leave his mate behind—you _are_ his. No one else may lay a hand on you.”

The words sent a shiver rattling through Anduin, and he breathed out a little too hard; Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed to thin, ruby slits. “That pleases you,” she said.

“I don’t—it’s simply—”

“You _desire_ him.” It was a statement of fact, with no room for doubt.

Anduin’s heart leapt in his chest, and he struggled to recall whether the Forsaken could sense such things the way worgen could. He tried to laugh, but it sounded forced even to his own ears. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, feigning an ease he didn’t feel.

“The warchief, Little Lion,” Sylvanas said pointedly. “You want to bed him. To be taken by him.” Suddenly the whole tone of their exchange seemed to shift, tilting the world beneath his feet and leaving him grasping for balance. “Is it his age,” she asked, “or his species? You’ll receive no judgment from me in either case. I’m simply curious.”

“Lady Windrunner, I—”

“You may call me Sylvanas, Your Highness. If we’re to be allies, perhaps even _friends_, it is only fitting.” She stepped away from the wall and came closer, not much taller than Anduin but still looming over him somehow. “I can help you win him, if you would like,” she whispered, speaking the words into Anduin’s ear like a secret. “Orcs are frighteningly simple creatures. Their appetites are rather… base.”

Despite himself, Anduin felt another shiver roll down the length of his body. Not one of fear this time, but _desire_. He swallowed and said, “How do you mean?”

“You have to be _bold_, Little Lion. Orcs do not play at coy misdirection. You must leave no question of your interest.”

“I’m not certain how to do that,” Anduin said. He felt himself blush to the tips of his ears, and it only deepened his humiliation. He had all but admitted his attraction to the warchief in front of not only Sylvanas, but Blightcaller, as well. There could be no denying it now. “I don’t—I’m not—”

Her red eyes widened a fraction. “You’re _untouched_,” she said. Another question that wasn’t a question at all. She chuckled, clearly delighted by her discovery of this humiliating information. “I do not intend to mock you, of course,” she assured him. “Some consider it quite a desirable trait. I’m certain a man like Varok Saurfang will enjoy being the first to have you.”

Anduin’s face was burning now, and he stammered a weak objection. Unfortunately, all he actually managed to say was, “It’s—I’m—I—”

“Offer yourself to him, Little Lion. He won’t misunderstand your intentions when he finds you waiting for him in his quarters, lying naked atop a pile of sleeping furs.” She paused for a moment, tapping a finger against her dark lips. “I cannot be certain he won’t simply ravish you on the spot, however.”

“Sylvanas!” Anduin gasped. “That’s—!”

“Orcs are not _gentle_, Highness. Nor are they a people known for their grand romantic notions. But you must be aware of that, or else why would you tempt such a man to take you into his bed.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort!” he objected, trying his best to sound offended by the mere suggestion, however terribly true it was.

“You’ve forgotten that I was present at your betrothal feast. I saw the way you lit up like a child at Winter Veil every time the warchief looked your way. Those blue eyes of yours followed his every move, memorizing every inch of muscle and relishing that it was yours, didn’t they,” she asked, making a liar out of him with the truth. “Surely you must have fantasized about it by now.”

Of course he had. “Of course I haven’t!”

Blightcaller snickered from his seat beside the fire, earning him an icy glare from Anduin.

“I can’t help but wonder what sort of daydreams a proper young prince such as yourself might imagine.” She circled him, eyeing him like a predator surveying its prey. “Surely you’ve overheard enough from your own soldiers to have _some_ idea of what it will be like. But nothing could truly prepare you. Not the boasts of human men, anyhow. Orcs are all power, strength, _purpose_, Little Lion. They take what they want. Is that what entices you?” she asked. “The thought of being pinned to the floor and used to Saurfang’s satisfaction?”

This was getting out of hand. Anduin was no longer certain if he was furious, afraid, or hopelessly aroused. He trembled where he stood, but she offered him no mercy. “And he is quite impressive, even for an orc. I can only assume the same is true of… other things.” She made a point of glancing down, and Anduin fought the urge to cover himself. “You needn’t worry that he will harm you, of course, but it won’t be easy.”

“Sylvanas, this is hardly appropriate—”

“You will thank me when you’re still able to walk after he’s done with you.”

Anduin’s knees were weak. He heard himself groan quietly, and it brought a fresh wave of humiliation crashing down on his already wounded dignity. “I doubt he’ll ever… That is, he’s shown no interest…”

“Of course not, you silly child.”

“Wh—_Pardon?_” Anduin managed to sputter.

Sylvanas actually rolled her eyes. If the entire conversation weren’t already so surreal, he might have laughed at how out of place the gesture was. “You are Varian Wrynn’s son, his heir, and clearly take after your mother in all other ways that matter most. Courting you—_truly_ courting you—would be a great risk not only to his already strained peace with your father, but his very _pride_. And there is little else worth more to an orc than pride, save honor.” The way she said the word _honor_ made Anduin aware of just how little value she placed in that particular virtue. He also had serious doubts about her impressions of orc culture, but he kept those to himself. “Could you not imagine the shame it would bring if you were to _reject_ him?” she asked.

That was ridiculous, Anduin would never reject the warchief. He had all but thrown himself at Saurfang from the very first moment they began regarding one another as something closer to equals. Alright, well, perhaps not the very _first_ moment. But in Ironforge, surely. And there was the unfortunate incident before that, in Grommash Hold. When Anduin had peeked past the break in the hide. He still couldn’t be certain Saurfang hadn’t seen—Light, or _smelled_—him. The thought prompted him to groan quietly, and he buried his face in his palm.

Wait.

“What was that about my mother?” he asked, looking up again.

Blightcaller laughed openly, and Sylvanas scoffed. “For one so educated and worldly, you are remarkably naive,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Perhaps they have no mirrors in Stormwind,” Blightcaller suggested, speaking past Anduin to Sylvanas.

She laughed, and Anduin looked back and forth between them. “Mirrors?” he asked. “I—what?” What were they _saying?_

“It is fortunate that you are mated to an orc,” Sylvanas said. Anduin was almost _certain_ that was intended to be an insult, even if he didn’t quite understand how.

“Alright,” he snapped, “enough!” He cut his hand across the air between them. “What is it that you want from me? I’ve been grateful and courteous up to now, but I refuse to accept that your assistance is merely altruism, or even _loyalty to the Horde_.” On some level he knew he was toeing a fine line, if not outright plummeting over it, but he was simply too frustrated. They were toying with him, and he was tired of their games. It also didn’t occur to him until _after_ his outburst that he was in the middle of the Plaguelands, dependent on their good will to make it safely back to anything remotely resembling civilization. Unfortunately, by that point it was too late to take back what he’d said. He was left with no choice but to simply ride it out and hope for the best.

Sylvanas regarded him for some time, her expression as unreadable as it had been in Quel’Thalas. A glance at Blightcaller revealed much the same. It was a fine thing that they could abruptly school their emotions so effectively, he thought. He didn’t have the first clue what either of them might be thinking, but it was clear they could read him like an open book.

At last, after what felt like far too much time had gone by in silence, Sylvanas’ lips lifted in an amused half-smile. “Bold of you, Prince Anduin, to speak to me in such a way. I admire that courage. Perhaps you are more your father’s son than I had believed.”

“Please, just tell me what it is you want from me.” He hoped, whatever it was, he could give it.

Sylvanas traded glances with Blightcaller, and then she nodded. “Very well,” she said. “Sit down, Little Lion, and let us see what use you may be to me, and, more importantly, _to my people_.”

  
They reached the Undercity shortly after nightfall on the second day of their journey, just as Sylvanas had said they would. Anduin was not offered a tour of the city hidden beneath Lordaeron’s ruins, nor even entrance; he assumed that was as much for his comfort as that of the Forsaken themselves. He didn’t begrudge them that privacy, either. Their lives had been cruelly stolen away, and new ones thrust upon them. It was not the privilege of the living to intrude upon that.

Instead, under the eerie, green-hued sky of Tirisfal Glades, they ascended a battered tower to a large, open platform. Coaxing Reverence up the winding stairs had been more work than he’d anticipated. It was only fortunate that they were built wide and sturdy, no doubt to accommodate much heavier traffic.

“Will you be accompanying me to Orgrimmar?” Anduin asked Sylvanas. He considered asking if Nathanos Blightcaller might stay behind, but then he thought better of it; no sense in prompting her to invite the Forsaken archer simply to amuse herself with Anduin’s dislike of him.

“I did not retrieve you from your lonely tower in Silvermoon simply to release you from my sights now,” Sylvanas answered. “I will be there when you are returned to the warchief’s side.

Anduin truly liked the sound of that. Not… necessarily that Sylvanas would be there—and certainly not Blightcaller, who would undoubtedly find some way to subtly mock Anduin for it—but that he would see Saurfang again. The warchief still had a great deal to answer for, but at least they would have that chance now. Quietly, so that only Sylvanas could hear, he said, “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me, Highness. Remember what we discussed, and what I have asked of you.”

He certainly wouldn’t forget. It just so happened that her wishes neatly coincided with his own, and in fact had been a subject he’d meant to (very carefully) broach with Saurfang. He might have done so on the voyage back to Durotar had his father not intervened. Of course, Anduin hadn’t told Sylvanas any of that. If she knew he was just as keen to move forward with the matter, she might not have been nearly so patient and accommodating. It was a bit underhanded, but given the circumstances it seemed prudent to simply pretend as though the idea had been hers all along.

“You have my word that I will make every effort to see it done,” he assured her.

The platform was empty save for the three of them. The Dark Rangers and the other Forsaken soldiers had returned to the city, bearing Sylvanas and Blightcaller’s undead steeds back along with them. It appeared that Anduin and his unlikely saviors would be the only ones making the journey back to Orgrimmar by zeppelin. Another first for him. He seemed to be experiencing a number of those recently.

He decided that he would keep to the deck for the journey, though it would take them across the Great Sea at night. Once they were underway, he found a spot in an out-of-the-way corner, near enough to Reverence that he could keep an eye on the stallion and calm him if need be. Sylvanas herself remained standing at the zeppelin’s bow, arms crossed as though daring the elements to strike the vessel down. Between them, Blightcaller sat upon the railing, sharpening a small hand axe and occasionally smirking at Anduin. He truly was insufferable.

Still, they had both been as good as their word, and he owed them more than he thought he might ever be able to repay. Unless, of course, by some miracle his and Sylvanas’ plan managed to come to fruition. Wouldn’t _that_ be a feat, he thought to himself.

The crossing itself was uneventful, though they spent most of their time above the sea wrapped in a dense fog. It left Anduin chilled and wishing he had thought to bring a cloak from Stormwind. As it was he only had the one blanket, and unless he wished to sit on the cold wooden deck, he would need to keep that underneath him. He was also tired, and desperate to sleep, but his mind just wouldn’t stop _racing_. How would Saurfang react to seeing him again, in Orgrimmar? Would he be angry? Would he insist on sending Anduin away?

Every time he began to fall asleep, another cold chill would wake him, dragging him back to the potentially unpleasant reunion he was facing upon their arrival. He tried sitting up with his arms wrapped around himself, and when that didn’t work he attempted to lie on his side, curled up tight. But nothing worked. He was far too anxious and far too cold to rest.

He was just beginning to doze again, anticipating the sudden jerk back to awareness, when he heard boots on the deck approaching him. The goblins that crewed the zeppelin were largely barefoot, which meant it was someone else. Perhaps someone not quite so friendly. But as exhausted as he was, and buried so deeply in his fears of the rejection he might encounter, Anduin could not bring himself to open his eyes. Not until he felt a strange weight settle over him. He lifted his head from his arm just enough to look over the makeshift blanket, discovering that it wasn’t a blanket at all, but a coat. Blightcaller’s coat. It was rough and somewhat musty, but more than enough to protect him from the chill.

When Anduin looked he saw that the Forsaken archer was already making his way back to where he had been sitting on the ship’s rail. He sat down again and began sharpening another axe, oblivious to Anduin’s incredulous gaze. Or else uninterested in his gratitude.

The next time Anduin drifted off, he slept until morning.

  
A thundering bellow shook him from his slumber, nearly sending him over the side of the zeppelin in his panic. What he found instead, to his confusion and great embarrassment, was the zeppelin crew hard at work preparing to dock. The welcome sight of Orgrimmar lay spread out below them, its spiked walls and towers rising impressively into the sky. The vessel’s horn blew a second time, and Anduin managed only a startled jerk of his shoulders. Reverence, for all that this was _his_ first time on a Horde zeppelin as well, seemed entirely unconcerned.

Blightcaller appeared to snatch his coat back from Anduin, who did not complain. As the Forsaken stalked away Anduin leaned over the side, his eager gaze roaming over the streets and alleys of the city. He had been telling himself for nearly two months that Orgrimmar was his home, but until that very moment, until he felt the leap of joy in his chest upon spotting the familiar shape of Grommash Hold, he wasn’t certain he had ever truly believed it. Now he knew for certain.

He took Reverence’s reins and led the stallion to the middle of the deck, near a roped-off gap in the railing. “Did you sleep well, Highness?” Sylvanas asked over his shoulder. She had a knowing smile, and Anduin was surprised to find it wasn’t nearly as unfriendly as he might have expected. He wondered if anyone, even other members of the Horde, might believe the strange kindness he had received from the Forsaken leader and her companion. He was still struggling to believe it himself.

“Yes, thank you,” he said somewhat absently, once more distracted by the view. Beside him Reverence pranced in place and threw his head, full of the same anxious energy that thrummed in Anduin’s chest. He reached out and gave the horse’s neck a scratch.

“A’right,” a young female goblin announced, “safe ta disembark!” She had a much heavier accent than Anduin was accustomed to hearing from the Bilgewater goblins. He nodded his thanks to her as she pulled the “safety” rope aside to allow them to pass.

Sylvanas gestured for Anduin to go first, and he happily did so, leading the small procession down the tower much as he had followed it up in Tirisfal Glades. They reached the bottom and exited into the bright sun of a Durotar morning, embraced by the balmy winds that seemed to forever buffet the upper reaches of the canyon bluffs. Anduin squinted against the light, no longer protected from it by the shade of the zeppelin. With his hand over his eyes to shield them from above, he looked out over the rest of the flat rise before him.

That was when he spotted Saurfang. The warchief stood some thirty feet away, beside the lift. His arms were crossed tightly over his broad chest, and a grimace tugged at his face, hiding his eyes within the shadow of his brow. In one hand he held a folded piece of parchment. From the broken wax seal hung two very elaborate, very _distinctive_ blue-and-gold ribbons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathanos: Ooh, look who has no idea he's pretty.  
Sylvanas: Ooh, look who still remembers what it's like to be nice to people.  
Nathanos: ...Fuck.
> 
> I like to keep from doing the same thing twice if I can avoid it. Plus the Forsaken deserve a chance to be the good guys once in a while, don't you think?
> 
> As always, comments are always appreciated. Don't forget that we have a [discord server](https://discord.gg/bJ2JQSx) set up for this ship. It gets a bit wild in there sometimes, but we have fun.


	12. Drink Responsibly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. Life kicked my ass for a while, then it started kicking everyone's ass, and the whole time the chapter was kicking my ass. I hope everyone is doing well, staying socially distant, keeping entertained, and remaining optimistic.
> 
> (If I haven't yet answered your comments from previous chapters, I apologize. I will be doing that soon, I promise.)

Saurfang could hear Anduin through the wall between their quarters. He was crying again. The sound of it was muffled by something—a pillow, perhaps, or his sleeve—and almost too quiet to hear. It seemed as though Anduin felt ashamed of his sorrow, yet knew of no better way to release it.

_I should go to him,_ Saurfang thought, but his legs simply would not obey. He could not bring himself to offer the prince his comfort. Not in the silence, and not when the young human’s grief became so clear that it tugged painfully at his heart. Of course, that did not stop him from dwelling on the matter regardless. _I could apologize,_ he mused. _Tell him of my feelings, and assure him that he is not alone._ Much as that appealed to him, he knew his motives were entirely selfish. Anduin’s grief was not his to assuage. He deserved the prince’s scorn, and he deserved to bear silent witness to the aftermath of their disastrous parting.

For just a moment the soft sounds coming from the other room stopped, and Saurfang selfishly hoped that Anduin might be done with it. That his emotions had finally run dry, and he could no longer sustain the anger and sadness that had burst forth from him when he read his father’s letter. But the reprieve was short-lived; Anduin hiccuped, coughed out another sob, and abruptly began again.

Damn Varian.

His message had been painfully straightforward. It was, more or less: _keep him_. The high king had released the prince to Saurfang’s care, washed his hands of the matter, and made it clear that he expected—and desired—no reply. Efficiently settled and brutally to the point. With that, Anduin was cut off from his only family. Worse still, along with the arrival of the letter, Saurfang had received a report that the Alliance’s efforts in Kul Tiras had finally yielded results. Their envoy would be returning to the Eastern Kingdoms with a new fleet, shifting the balance of power heavily in their favor, and putting the Horde at a distinct disadvantage. By all accounts it appeared as though they were preparing for war. Whether they intended to meet one head on in the future or start the conflict themselves was still unclear.

None of that was Anduin’s fault, of course. Saurfang doubted that Varian’s decision to move forward with the Kul Tiran negotiations had ever been tabled, even after their mutual push for peace. For all his blunt maneuvering, the king was a shrewd man, both clever and resourceful when needed, and he would not simply take the Horde on blind faith alone. Saurfang could not fault him for being prepared. It was only prudent, given their shared history. But he could fault him for breaking Anduin’s heart. The wound Varian had carved into Anduin was no worse than the one Saurfang himself inflicted that day in Stormwind, and no less callous. But while his own words had been barbed and venomous, they had also been spoken in anger, spilling out of him in the heat of the moment, when he had more fury than sense. Varian’s cruelty was precise and vicious. It was a spiteful act of premeditation, done to avenge his own injured pride. He rejected his son because he felt as though his son had rejected him, and now Anduin was lying in his bed, weeping, because he had no one left.

_No one but_—

No. He could not allow himself that hope. Its source was polluted by his own dishonor. That Anduin had returned to him was nothing more than sheer luck. Tempting fate beyond that seemed foolish.

Shortly after their arrival in Orgrimmar, Sylvanas and Blightcaller had explained most of what happened to the prince between leaving Stormwind and his return aboard the zeppelin that morning. The banshee had been intentionally vague regarding just who it was that took Anduin from Elwynn, but Saurfang could guess. He was not without his own means of procuring information, regardless of what others might think, and he would be having words with the regent lord once things were settled in his own hold.

Although the sounds of anguish had once more grown faint, he could still hear enough to know that the young human was not finished. Saurfang wondered if his company would even be welcomed at that point. A small part of him hoped that he might be wrong—that Anduin might actually _need_ him. It was strange, relishing such an opportunity; by nature orcs did not burden others with their pain if they could avoid it. But he knew humans were different, and even among his own kind Anduin was so often an exception. Perhaps he needed someone to cling to. Someone who would remind him that he wasn’t really alone. That he had the whole of the Horde now, if he wished. He had his mate.

The sobbing abruptly stopped again. Just as Saurfang was beginning to wonder if that might truly be the end of it, he heard the sound of feet landing on the floor beyond the wall. Something crashed against the wall between them, and a moment later the prince came bursting through the hanging hide that separated Saurfang’s quarters from the corridor. His nose and eyes were red and his chest was heaving.

He held out his hand, gesturing with his fingers. He pointed to a brown glass bottle sitting to the side of the low table. “That,” he said when Saurfang didn’t immediately grasp his meaning. “Give it to me.”

“This is rum,” Saurfang said, tilting the bottle with his fingertip.

“I know what it is,” Anduin snapped. He made the same gesture, and Saurfang could only shrug and do as his mate demanded. Denying him had not worked in his favor so far. It would take a fool to think that continuing to run headfirst into the same wall might yield a different result.

“I’m furious with you,” Anduin suddenly announced. He ripped the cork from the bottle and tipped it back. Saurfang was forced to tear his eyes away from the sight of his slender throat working to swallow the rum. Anduin shuddered and made a face as he pulled the bottle from his lips. It took him several seconds before he could continue. “You had no right, you know,” he said once the shivers had subsided. “None at all.”

“Your Highness—”

“I am not finished.” He took another pull from the bottle and sat down heavily on the floor opposite Saurfang. His eyes were still puffy and red, and the tears upon his lashes hadn’t yet dried completely. His blond hair, usually pulled back in a leather tie, hung loose around his face. He hadn’t even bothered to wear boots. “You acted like a child. _You_,” he said, gesturing to all of Saurfang. “What sort of mate are you, anyway?”

Was that an actual question? Saurfang opened his mouth to answer, taken aback by the prince’s uncharacteristic tone, but he was promptly cut off again.

“You left me, Warchief Saurfang. I may not be _of the Horde_,” he said, making quotes with his fingers while still holding the bottle, “but I know that you dishonored me with your actions. You dishonored _yourself_.” He took one more sip and slammed the glass bottle down on the table, flattening the end of a scroll. “You made a fool of me for the sake of your own wounded pride.”

Saurfang tried not to bristle at the prince’s accusations, however true they might be. It struck too close to his own assessment of Varian’s behavior for his comfort, to say nothing of the presumption it took to tell the warchief of the Horde that he was behaving like a _child_. He was not some shiftless peon to be taken to task for his ineptitude.

Still, he had wronged his mate, and it was therefore the prince’s prerogative to remind him of that as he saw fit—as any mate would. It seemed that, although Anduin had likely never been made directly aware of that particular aspect of orc culture, he had nevertheless stumbled upon it all by himself. Saurfang sighed.

“I heard you earlier,” Anduin went on to say. He did not seem interested in whatever excuses Saurfang might offer for his behavior. “You were speaking to Sylvanas.”

_Sylvanas_, was it? It seemed there was more to the banshee’s retelling than she had let on, especially if they were already so familiar. Anduin had never slipped in his proper address, even with his own mate—although by any standards they were long since overdue to finally dispense with such formalities. Saurfang just couldn’t seem to bring himself to initiate it. “What of it?” he asked, being intentionally evasive. He would let the prince make his interests known, rather than blindly providing answers that might reveal more than necessary. It was enough that the boy had taken such a firm grasp of Saurfang’s dignity.

Upending the bottle for another long drink of rum, Anduin held out a finger, instructing him to wait. The quantity he’d managed to down in such a relatively short time probably should have alarmed Saurfang, but he was too focused on the rhythmic bob of the prince’s throat to give the matter much thought.

“I want to know what you were discussing,” Anduin said at last, breaking the spell. He paused to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “There’s more to this than my father’s predictably foul temper.”

“That is not—” Saurfang hesitated. It was almost impossible to think the prince wouldn’t eventually stumble upon the truth; his own father was preparing to make war, or so it seemed, and that news would only remain a secret for so long. He lifted the half-flattened scroll and handed it over. “Kul Tiras has officially rejoined the Alliance,” he said. “A fleet has set sail for Stormwind. Twenty-plus warships.”

Anduin quickly looked over the contents and frowned. “I don’t think he intends to go to war over something so trivial,” he said. Saurfang tried not to show his displeasure at the prince’s easy dismissal of himself as both a simple matter of politics and so incidental as to be beneath concern. “And these talks with the Kul Tirans have been in the works for some time. This is only a show of strength.”

“My thoughts as well, but I cannot allow it to go unanswered. You understand that.”

“Of course not,” Anduin agreed. He drank more of the rum. The bottle was less than half-full now, and he gave no indication that he intended to set it aside any time soon. Saurfang was beginning to wonder if he should say something. Such as _stop_.

“Escalation often leads to conflict, Highness,” he said instead.

Anduin dismissed his concern with a backwards wave of his hand. The rum sloshed in the bottle, and he eyed it for a moment before taking another sip. “He would have to be a fool. And I know you think he is, but he isn’t.”

Not the most eloquent defense of the king, perhaps, but Saurfang accepted that no one might know the father better than the son. “Agreed,” he rumbled thoughtfully, scratching his chin. Varian was smart enough to push the advantage when it might benefit him, but there was no advantage in open war. At best the Kul Tiran fleet was a deterrent. Saurfang was confident that Varian would not seek to flex this new muscle until it became absolutely necessary.

Sitting across from him, Anduin was beginning to sway slightly where he sat, legs folded, the bottle cradled loosely in his hands. Saurfang watched him for a moment before he reached to take it away.

“No!” Anduin snapped. He twisted at the waist to keep the rum from Saurfang’s grasp. Spirits, it would take a peon nearly two full bottles before they might begin to feel the effects so strongly. Anduin was small, but surely he had more fortitude than that? He was Varian’s son after all.

Perhaps it had more to do with his sorrow, Saurfang mused. Anduin hadn’t eaten anything since returning to Orgrimmar, either. Combined with the hours spent weeping, grieving for his misfortune and distressed by recent events, it was no surprise that such a small human had succumbed so quickly. 

He decided it was time to say something—not about the bottle, which Anduin seemed determined to keep and finish, but the letter. The pain that Anduin was now trying to drown, because it refused to be purged by any other means. “Your Highness, if you wish to discuss the king’s decision…”

That was as far as he got before Anduin promptly stood up and started pacing the room. He was gesturing with the bottle, its remaining contents sloshing about wildly as he moved. “I understand why he’s doing it,” he said. Saurfang had never seen him so full of nervous energy.

“He is angry,” he put in helpfully.

“That’s no excuse!” Anduin shouted. He turned a glare on Saurfang. “No excuse for either of you! You both agreed to this, and you! You _asked for me_, and then you tossed me aside!” He stumbled over a rug that had been beaten flat by years of use, nearly landing in the pile of Saurfang’s blankets and sleeping furs. It really shouldn’t have disappointed him so much that Anduin managed to right himself before he went down on his hands and knees. “Now _he_ is doing the same thing. You both ignore that I am my own man whenever it suits you, and I will _not_ be fought over and arbitrarily discarded like a hound’s plaything!”

He was loud enough that Saurfang was certain others in the hold would overhear. At any other time he might have made an effort to calm Anduin, or even commanded him to lower his voice—for all the good it would do—but he was old enough and experienced enough to know a lost cause when he saw one. When it was ranting and raving, pacing from one wall to the other, stopping only briefly to drink more rum.

“Your Highness, you have almost emptied the bottle.”

“Is there more?” Anduin asked, swaying again. He looked down at the bottle and squinted at it for several seconds before he swung his head up again. “What else do you have in here?”

“Nothing that you should drink.”

“Do _not_ tell me what to do!” Anduin shouted. “I am _through_ with being treated like a child! I am a grown man, Warchief Saurfang, and I will be given the proper respect I’m due—from you _and_ from him!”

He was shifting wildly between confusion and outrage, very obviously fighting back fresh tears. Saurfang understood his grief, as much as he could, but he knew of nothing he might say that would ease it. Not least of all because he himself had been a significant source of that pain. His behavior in Stormwind was everything Anduin claimed, even he acknowledged that much. If a sound lashing from the prince’s venomous tongue was all he suffered for it, he supposed he would be getting off lightly.

And so he sat, and listened, and watched as Anduin hunted down more rum once his bottle was empty.

“I could have food brought for you,” he offered after what he estimated to be another thirty minutes of disjointed, meandering rage. “Or water.”

“Stop trying to coddle me,” Anduin snarled. He was making headway on his second bottle, and Saurfang was beginning to suspect it might be time to press the issue, and simply take the rum away. By force, if it became necessary. Which it almost certainly would.

“I am attempting to do as a mate should,” he said in an effort to placate Anduin’s temper. “You yourself reminded me of my duties to you.”

Anduin stopped and turned toward him. Mostly. He couldn’t seem to focus on Saurfang’s face, but he kept trying, blinking over and over in an apparent attempt to clear his vision. “Your duties to me?” he asked after some time had passed.

It was the most significant shift in his disposition since he’d started drinking. Saurfang seized on it at once. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said, “you were right, I dishonored you. Please, allow me to make up for that now.” He was no great diplomat, not even one of Anduin’s caliber, but he would consider it a feat worthy of retelling if he could manage to talk the bottle out of the prince’s small hands. Anduin might not be an orc, but he certainly embodied the drunken belligerence of one.

“You’re sorry?” Anduin asked, slurring the words slightly.

“Yes. And I will apologize again when you might remember it. Set the bottle down. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

Anduin watched him for a moment, wary eyes narrowed over a pout that should not have been so appealing for all that he seemed to have no control over his face at the moment. At last he nodded, shuffling forward to set the bottle on the table. Saurfang caught it before it could tip over the edge. Then, in a flurry of blond hair and ungainly limbs, he abruptly found his arms full of one distraught and drunk human prince.

“Prince Anduin!” Saurfang shouted. Anduin’s hands were on his shoulders, circling his neck, and his face was pressed to Saurfang’s cheek. He was dangerously close to catching the sharp edge of a fang, but that was the least of their concerns.

“This is your duty,” Anduin mumbled drunkenly. He reeked of rum, and beneath that Saurfang could smell the dust of Orgrimmar on him, along with whatever soap he had used to bathe himself. It was rich and fragrant, and blended with the scent of human to create an intoxicating aroma that pooled like heat in Saurfang’s groin. He breathed out a shuddered sigh and tried to summon the will to push Anduin away, but the prince held tight. “Don’t,” he insisted, dragging his soft lips across Saurfang’s cheek.

“Your Highness, I cannot—”

“You _can_, I’m letting you. I want this.” Anduin pressed closer, rubbing against Saurfang’s chest like a prowler in heat. “Don’t you want me?”

Spirits, he _wanted_. Muradin’s words came thundering back to him as he fought the urge to drop Anduin onto his back across the table and take him right there.

_“Anduin fancies ye.”_

It seemed the old dwarf was right. Horribly, _wonderfully_ right. Anduin’s hands found their way under his tabard, and Saurfang clenched his teeth around a growl. “Your Highness,” he forced out between labored breaths, “it isn’t… right.” He still had his honor, his promise to Varian to uphold.

“You’re my husband. You’re my _mate_. It’s right. It’s so right. _Please_,” Anduin whined, the sound of it so sweet that Saurfang’s cock throbbed uncomfortably. The ache in his loins was almost overwhelming, threatening to drown his reason in need. It was maddening; he’d never thought he might have the opportunity to touch Anduin, to feel him skin to skin like this.

And then he recalled Ironforge, and the small bed they’d shared. He thought of Anduin’s bare skin, dappled with sweat and nearly glowing in the heat. What a wasted opportunity. If he could go back to that moment, to Anduin lying beside him, he would do everything differently. He would lick the sweat from his skin, give him everything he could take and more, until the warmth of the Great Forge felt like the snow outside for the heat between them.

He found himself muttering, “I do want you, Highness. I have wanted you—” but he choked on the words even as he tried to make himself say them. He could not tell Anduin how long these feelings had burned within him, and he could not indulge in his desire. Not even as that desire gently nibbled at his ear—_spirits help him_, the boy’s tongue…

It took every ounce of will he possessed not to tear apart the leather ties of his pants and simply impale Anduin where he sat. He would revel the resulting cries of pleasure, breathless begging, and all the little moans and pleas for more that were sure to follow. He wanted to touch and taste his prize, and claim him the way a mate was meant to be claimed. Anduin was _his_—by every right his to have, and now he was his for the taking, and oh, Saurfang wanted to take and _take_.

Delicate fingers touched his lip, pulling him from the deep pit of his own lust. He looked down at Anduin, only instead of the wanton, hungering prince, he saw there the young man who had just lost everything. He saw the red rims of his dark blue eyes, the lashes clumped from tears, and his ruddy nose. He smelled the rum on Anduin’s breath, and it was his resolve that hardened then. “No,” he said, pulling Anduin’s arms from his neck.

However belligerent he was, Anduin was still only a human. A young, relatively weak human, who could not stop an orc from pushing him away. Who could not stop an orc from doing _anything_, in fact, which made it so much more vital that Saurfang exercise restraint, regardless of the temptation. He had already shamed Anduin once. He would not do so again.

“_Nooo_,” Anduin complained. He fought Saurfang’s hold on his arms, trying to wiggle his way back into his lap. “Please, we both want this.”

“Want has nothing to do with it, Your Highness,” Saurfang said quietly.

Anduin abruptly went limp in his arms. He stopped fighting, and his chin dropped to his chest, hiding his face behind a curtain of blond hair. For a moment Saurfang thought he might have passed out, but then he sniffled and shook his head. “I understand,” he said in a small voice.

Saurfang was almost certain he didn’t. Not really. He was too drunk to know what it was he had offered, or what it meant to his mate to turn it down. The sheer ache and agony of it. When he lifted his face again he was crying just a bit, the glistening tears staining his pink cheeks. All the weight of the world seemed to be heaped upon him, and in his eyes lay a deep weariness that Saurfang knew all too well. It was not the sort that sleep alone would mend.

“Allow me to get you a wet cloth,” he said, offering this kindness because it was all he _could_ give. He could not risk allowing Anduin to embrace him, could not offer him a gentle hand on the shoulder, or a pat on the back. Spirits, but he wanted to touch him again. Only the fear of feeling those bird-like shoulders tremble beneath his touch stayed his hand.

Anduin nodded, sniffling again. Saurfang pushed himself up from the floor with a grunt. He retreated to the adjacent room to gather a cloth and dunk it in the clean water in a basin by the wall. All the while his cock continued to remind him of his desire, though he desperately wished it would not. He adjusted himself, sighing at the momentary relief even that light touch brought him, and closed his eyes. Shame battered at his conscience, warring with his common sense: he knew that he could not indulge in his feelings for the prince—but nor could he ignore them. And if he went back to Anduin, if he was tempted once more, he could not be certain he would have the strength to refuse.

He leaned on the basin with both hands and stared at his reflection. His cock gave a hopeful throb at the unbidden memory of Anduin’s scent, of his soft, supple warmth against Saurfang’s coarse skin. He gripped himself again to ease the ache, but this time he did not remove his hand. If he could not avoid Anduin, avoid his lust for him, then perhaps he could… lessen the need, somewhat.

A few stolen moments to himself wouldn’t matter, would they? Anduin was drunk, barely able to keep himself upright. It was unlikely he would even notice that it had taken Saurfang a little longer than necessary to retrieve the cloth as promised.

With a furtive glance at the hide that separated the two rooms, Saurfang backed himself against the far wall, where he knew that he could not be seen. He unlaced his pants, the quick, almost panicked movements of his hand more a hindrance than a help. Beneath the leather his cock twitched and throbbed impatiently. He could feel sweat forming on his brow, hear his own labored breath like a roaring wind in the quiet space, and then, finally, he had himself in hand. The cool air of the hold was like a lover’s kiss. He swallowed back a groan at the thought, and gave himself a quick stroke.

It wasn’t enough. Gripping more tightly, he did it again, and again, running his thumb across the head of his cock and biting down on his lip to keep from making any noise that might alert Anduin. It felt unseemly, doing this while the prince was waiting in the other room, but a small voice reminded him that abandoning his honor and falling prey to desire would be far worse.

And it _felt_ so good, so _right_. He swirled the slick precome across his skin and huffed out a breath. His free hand lay flat against the stone and metal wall behind him, as though he could anchor himself that way. In truth, his legs were trembling, and his breath caught on every exhale. His mind raced with images of Anduin, overwhelming and threatening to put him on his knees.

_Anduin lying on a pile of furs, spread out and wanting, his skin glowing in the light from the fire… _

_Anduin begging, pleading for Saurfang to take him…_

_Anduin’s blue eyes sliding closed, cheeks flushed, blond head dipping to take Saurfang in his mouth…_

It was the last one that broke him. He came with a grunt, hips pumping his cock into his fist, making a mess across his fingers and the floor. For a few seconds his head buzzed like a silithid hive and his body tingled with the satisfaction of his climax.

And then the shame swooped in, snatching away his bliss in an instant.

He buried his face in the hand that wasn’t currently covered in the evidence of his weakness and groaned quietly. Then, grabbing a second cloth, he began wiping himself clean. His legs were still shaking, and his heart beat wildly in his chest, but he would be fine. He would clean himself, clean the floor—spirits, the _floor_—and it would be as though it had never happened.

Right.

“You naive old fool,” he muttered bitterly.

It was quiet in the other room. Saurfang briefly wondered if Anduin had finally passed out. If that was the case, he would need tending. A pang of guilt shot through his gut; he had just pleasured himself to fantasies of the prince, and _now_ he wished to look after him?

“Your Highness,” he said, pulling the cloth out of the basin and setting it aside so he could wash his hands. He hurried through the hide into the adjoining room, water still dripping from his fingertips. “I have the cloth…”

Anduin was gone.

  
“Where is he?” he demanded, charging down the steps and into the main chamber of the hold. It was late, but not yet so late that the guards had moved to take watch for the night. The doors were still open, and he could hear the sounds of activity filtering in from the bustling Valley of Strength outside.

“Who, Warchief?” the nearest Kor’kron asked.

“Prince Anduin, where has he gone?” He had checked Anduin’s room first, assuming he must have stumbled off to his own bed. When he’d received no answer from within he had gently pushed the door open, hoping to find the prince asleep. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of an empty room. There was no fire in the hearth, no sign of his presence apart from the now-crumpled letter from Varian, still lying on the bed. That was when Saurfang had truly started to worry.

“He left, Warchief.”

“And you did not think to stop him?!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind he understood that it was not their fault Anduin had wandered off. The prince was allowed unrestricted access to all of Orgrimmar, and since his arrival he had made regular use of that privilege. There was no reason to assume that, even drunk, Anduin might not be permitted to leave. Saurfang wouldn’t have even thought of it himself if he had not from the wash room to find the prince missing.

“My apologies,” the Kor’kron said swiftly, thumping his chest and bowing his head in shame.

Saurfang sent the young orc scurrying for his post with a truly vicious glare. He would deal with their supposed-misstep some other time, when Anduin was back within the hold. Safe from whatever had possessed him to stumble out, drunk and alone, without even so much as his shoes.

He wiped a hand down his face and growled. Ancestors help him, he was proving himself to be a _terrible_ mate.

  
The cooler winds of the evening had already come down from the north, descending like a cloak across the city as the light faded beyond the canyon walls. The valley was alive with the last trade of the day, filling now with noise and laughter as the city’s inhabitants settled in to enjoy the night. It might have been simple to spot Anduin among the throngs of passing orcs, elves, and other races during the day, when he stood out like a beacon, but in the dusk he was just one among many. Saurfang looked around, feeling the first tendrils of panic creeping into the back of his mind. Anduin was drunk, and alone. He was only a human. He—

“Warchief,” someone said.

Saurfang spun around to find himself facing one of the city guard. A red-haired orc, with a knowing smirk tilting her lips. Something about her seemed familiar, but he dismissed the thought as she lifted her arm and pointed in the direction of the trading houses. Had Anduin gone there? _Why?_

She must have seen his confusion, because she shook her head. “The tavern,” she clarified.

Oh.

Damn Anduin, he’d gone looking for another drink!

Nodding his thanks to the guard, Saurfang set off at a brisk and very _determined_ march across the dry-packed road. No one stood in his way, and more than one unfortunate peon scurried to clear a path as he stomped up to the steps of the Broken Tusk, fists clenched and mouth set in a snarl. Light spilled out of the open door, gold against the dark blue of the shadows. He could hear the sounds of raucous laughter within. Evidently the Horde there were not bothered by the human prince in their midst.

“—but he couldn’t read the inscription!” Anduin’s voice rang through the chatter, drawing another round of laughter from the other patrons. Saurfang stepped inside to find the prince sitting atop a table, bare feet swinging below him, pouring what appeared to be an ale down his throat. The sadness and weariness of earlier seemed to have given way to high spirits—or the appearance of such. He had somehow gathered a crowd around him, and they were so caught up in whatever story he was telling that they did not notice the looming menace of the warchief at their backs.

“Wait until I tell you about the first time my father tried to ride an elekk,” Anduin said following another sip.

Although Saurfang was certain he would have enjoyed listening to further tales of Varian Wrynn’s most embarrassing failures, this simply would not do. “Prince Anduin,” he said. He did not raise his voice, but every living—and unliving—being within the tavern reacted as though he had roared Anduin’s name across the valley. Heads swiveled in his direction, and the space around them went silent.

“This is my _mate_,” Anduin said, gesturing to Saurfang with his stein. As though anyone there might be unacquainted with the enormous orc towering in the doorway.

Saurfang had not failed to notice the sarcastic way in which he said the word _mate_. He growled, tensing the muscles of his arms until they stood out in relief against his skin, silently challenging anyone who might be foolish enough to so much as snicker. “I am taking you back to the hold,” he said in no uncertain terms.

Anduin scoffed, took another drink, and set his stein down. “I wasn’t finished telling my story.”

“You are finished _now_.” Saurfang stepped forward and wrapped his hand around Anduin’s upper arm. His fingers all but engulfed the small limb, spanning from his shoulder almost all the way down to his elbow. He tried to ignore how that made him feel. “Let’s go.”

“My ale…”

“Leave it.”

Anduin struggled a bit, but it was only a token protest. Drunk or not, they both knew he was too weak to put up much of a fight.

Not physically, at least.

Behind him Saurfang heard his petulant huff, and then a quiet mutter of, “I see, _now_ you want to touch me.”

The whole of the tavern, already so silent, went utterly still. Saurfang was certain no one dared even breathe.

He turned slowly, looking down on the small human as he fought to control his fury. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of an orc surreptitiously passing a small sack of coins to a goblin. _Wonderful_. At least Gallywix would be pleased.

“You are coming with me,” he growled.

Anduin snorted, laughing at some childish joke only he seemed to understand. He tugged his arm back again, enjoying no more success than before, and sighed. “But I don’t _want_ to go back there,” he said.

Saurfang was tempted to ask why, knowing somewhere in the sea of ale sloshing around within his skull Anduin likely had an actual reason. But he was the warchief, and he would not entertain a drunken human’s sullen tantrum. Not where others could see. It was enough that he had been forced to go out and retrieve his mate, who did not seem to have any such concerns about making a scene.

When Anduin continued to resist, Saurfang turned and simply hoisted the prince up over one shoulder, bearing him effortlessly like a sack of dry grain. Anduin sputtered and objected, and a few uncouth exclamations spilled drunkenly from his lips, but he simply did not have the balance or the strength necessary to lift himself and struggle free from Saurfang’s grasp.

The tavern’s patrons were still watching. Some had the sense to fix their eyes elsewhere, but there were more than a few poorly-concealed smirks scattered among the rest. Saurfang growled at them, turning on his heel without a word and bearing the prince back to the hold with as much dignity as he could muster.

They crossed the valley to shocked murmurs as the citizens still milling about parted swiftly for him once more. Some laughed as they went by, and Anduin complained bitterly to Saurfang’s back with every snicker.

“You’re making a fool of me!” he hissed, kicking his bare feet in frustration.

“You’ve made a fool of _yourself_, Highness,” Saurfang said firmly. “Any shame is your own.”

But Anduin did not seem to appreciate that answer. He spent the rest of the walk across the valley making his feelings on the matter _quite_ clear.

They entered Grommash Hold, and Saurfang ignored whatever greeting the Kor’kron offered as the doors were shut behind them. It seemed pointless to bother with a belligerent prince dangling from his shoulder. Anduin would only interrupt anyway. He ascended the steps up to his quarters, attempting to ignore the endless stream of drunken contempt trailing behind him. 

Unfortunately, once he reached the top of the stairs, Saurfang found himself facing a dilemma. One that, for all his supposed wisdom, he had not anticipated. He could not deposit Anduin in his room and assure his compliance, as the door only locked from the inside. But nor could he leave him by himself, trusting that he would remain safely where he was. Even locked within the hold, there was plenty of mischief one young human could get up to. Likewise, setting a guard to his door seemed more likely to cause a problem than solve one, and in any case, Anduin was too drunk to be left alone.

He grimaced, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “It could have been Tess Greymane,” he muttered wearily. Such an arrangement wouldn’t have had nearly the same effect on their efforts at peace—if it actually had any effect at all, given that she was no longer a true heir and quite unlikely to agree—but at least the princess might have only slipped a dagger between his ribs while he wasn’t looking. Such thoughts weren’t much help at the moment, however.

“You will sleep with me tonight,” he said. It was the only way to ensure the prince would not get himself into further trouble.

Anduin abruptly stopped struggling.

Saurfang sighed. “In my _quarters_, Highness,” he clarified. “Where I can watch you.”

There was a disappointed huff behind him, and Anduin went limp.

Passing Anduin’s door, Saurfang pushed back the hide and entered his own quarters. He brought Anduin over to the pile of furs and blankets. It formed a comfortable, nest-like space, and there he deposited his charge, dropping him rather unceremoniously on his bottom.

Anduin yelped and flopped onto his side. “You’re a brute!” he complained.

_I could be so much worse,_ Saurfang thought with a snort. “Sleep, Your Highness,” he said instead. He moved to bank the fire and extinguish the torches, shrouding the room in darkness. It was early yet, but he could make do with a single candle on the table, reading and answering missives until he was certain Anduin was asleep.

“My face feels strange,” Anduin murmured from the bedding. From the corner of his eye Saurfang could see him tugging at his lips and cheeks, pinching the skin as though attempting to mold it like clay.

“Likely the drink,” he answered. “Sleep, it will subside.”

“I’m cold.”

Did he _never_ cease? “Move under the furs.”

“Come warm me.”

Not again. Saurfang felt a familiar stirring between his legs, and he attempted to will it away. “That would be a bad idea, Prince Anduin,” he said tightly.

He heard some more indistinct mumbling—more complaints, no doubt. Most of it he ignored. But in the silence that followed something did catch his ear. A quiet, “_Shouldn’t have listened to Sylvanas_.”

Saurfang rubbed his temples and tried to fight the urge to clench his teeth. Now the Banshee Queen was involved in his personal affairs. He could not have imagined a more absurd scenario if he wished to. “Sleep,” he ground between his teeth. He was answered by another meandering assessment of his hospitality and worth as a mate, and then at last the room fell blessedly silent.

If only the pounding need coursing through his veins had subsided along with the prince’s complaints, he reflected with a quiet sigh.

  
He must have fallen asleep at some point—somewhere between Anduin’s soft snores and the quiet mewling each time he turned in the furs. More than once the prince had muttered in his sleep; broken, disjointed arguments with his father, mainly. Saurfang could only feel grateful that his resting mind seemed to have forgotten the desire that had prompted him to crawl into the lap of an orc. The memory of which had been seared into Saurfang’s mind for what he suspected would be the rest of his life.

The room was dark when he awoke. The candle on the low table had guttered in its own wax, and the thin, slatted windows showed no remaining light beyond the hold. Not even the occasional flicker from the bonfires that burned late into the night. The furs and blankets in the alcove were piled high, and Saurfang could hear the prince’s soft exhalations emanating from the small mound.

Drums sounded five in the morning beyond the walls of the hold, and Saurfang scrubbed a hand over his face. It would be morning soon. He had slept on his side, on the floor, and his back ached from the hard wood. Some part of him wanted nothing more than to curl around Anduin, to share warmth in the chill of the early morning, and wake together.

Instead, he sat up, dug the wick from the cooled wax, and lit the blackened end. It cast its glow across the table, giving him enough light to read. He was halfway through a long and tedious scroll from some lonely commander in a far-flung corner of the world when he felt his eyelids begin to sink again. Over and over he struggled to remain awake and upright, but it was a lost cause; he had not slept a full night since departing Stormwind, and in light of the uncertainties that now plagued him, he harbored no illusions of that changing any time soon.

But Anduin still required his care. And so, pushing himself up with a quiet grunt, Saurfang dutifully shuffled across the room to check on the sleeping prince. He pulled back the soft fur that lay draped across him—the one he himself had placed there—and found that Anduin was still fast asleep, lying on his side with one hand tucked under his chin. All the tension and anger had faded from his brow, and his eyelids fluttered gently as he dreamt.

Saurfang watched him for some time, mesmerized by the sight. Anduin was beautiful, and it seemed, even if only when he was inebriated, Anduin wanted him. Wanted _him_. It was too much to believe.

He sat down beside his sleeping mate, resting his weary body on the soft furs. Anduin was more than he deserved. More than he had ever dared to hope he might have. He had made his promise to Varian that day in Dalaran expecting that when the prince arrived he would be a weak, waifish youth. A mere boy, with no real inclination toward deepening their bond, or in fact much interest at all in the affairs of the Horde to which he was irrevocably tying himself. Instead he’d found the prince to be a remarkable and surprising young man. Anduin was no fighter, of course. Not like his father, and certainly nothing at all like his mate. But in the time they had known one another Saurfang had learned the valuable lesson that to think him weak was a grave miscalculation. Anduin was strong—much stronger than anyone gave him credit for, and more than worthy of the warchief.

If only the warchief was worthy of _him_.

Despite all the wrong done to him, Anduin had returned. Now he lay so close that Saurfang could have scooped him up in his arms and held him close if he dared. Small and fierce and determined never to be cast aside again. That was strength that could not be measured, and Saurfang truly admired him for it.

Adored him for it.

Perhaps even _loved_ him for it.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes again. He was a fool. A selfish, stubborn fool. His promise to Varian had been broken long ago, and they both knew it. It had shattered the moment he laid eyes upon Anduin, standing before him like gold glinting in the sun. One smile had been enough to ruin him entirely.

It was no wonder Varian despised him so. In truth, the king had every right to be furious, even though the means by which he had gone about it were dishonorable. He had placed his trust in Saurfang, and almost immediately he’d seen it betrayed.

_Weakness_, that was the problem. If only Saurfang had been stronger, better prepared, then he might have managed to resist the allure of this small, astounding human prince. But for all his honor, all his might, he knew in his heart that he was little more than a weak, wretched fool. Anduin deserved so much more. Even Anduin himself seemed to know it.

So lightly that his touch may as well have been a breeze, Saurfang reached out and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind Anduin’s ear. An indulgence, only for himself. Only the once.

The last thing he knew before slipping back into the welcoming arms of sleep was Anduin rolling over to face him, sighing lightly and burrowing deeper into the soft fur that lay beneath them both.

  
The next time he woke, drums were heralding the arrival of six in the morning. Saurfang grimaced at the ache settled low on his back, gnawing at his spine. He huffed out a sigh and twisted to look down at Anduin—

Who was gone. Again.

Despite his many aches and pains that morning, Saurfang was up on his feet in a flash. He crossed the room and threw aside the hide, barreling out into the corridor and down the steps, bypassing the prince’s room entirely. He knew, somehow, that he would not find Anduin there even if he took the time to look.

The Kor’kron were moving to their daytime posts as he thundered into the lower hold, and they bolted upright at his arrival.

“Where is he now?!”

They seemed ready for him this time. “He’s gone out, Warchief,” one of them explained. “He’s—”

“Why did you—”

“He seemed to be himself again, sir!”

Saurfang frowned. Anduin was young, and it was entirely possible he had already sobered. Still, he had made himself clear to the Kor’kron the last time—or so he thought. “Perhaps when I return, I will remind you of your place and your duties, and let you decide if _I_ seem _myself_ when I do so,” he growled.

The Kor’kron slumped a bit in his armor. “Warchief,” he acknowledged dully.

Inside, Saurfang was trying to suppress a smirk; he had no intention of following through with his threat. The warning was enough. And for the moment he had much more pressing matters to attend to. Matters with a penchant for wandering off when it was least convenient.

The city guards must have taken their example from the Kor’kron, because they immediately pointed him toward the wall overlooking the city’s main gate. The first scattered light of morning had stained the sky with a wash of muted gray-blue, obscuring all but the top of the wall in long shadows. Saurfang quickly made his way up the zigzagging steps, expecting that he might find Anduin drinking again, perhaps arm in arm with those guards who seemed to enjoy his company so much. The ones who had glared at their own warchief as though he’d personally insulted their honor. Given that most of them likely believed he’d murdered his mate at the time, that was less than surprising, and rather tame if so. Still, it was annoying.

What he did not expect to find as he ascended to the top of the wall was Anduin, standing alone, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked out over the arid expanse of Durotar. The wind high up on the wall had caught his hair and the loose, thin weave of his shirt, blowing them each in whatever direction it pleased. Saurfang was relieved to note that he at least had his boots on, and he appeared to have regained his balance.

“Prince Anduin,” he said, announcing himself.

Anduin’s eyes widened a fraction and his fingers tightened on his arms. Turning just his head, he acknowledged the greeting with a nod. “Warchief.”

It seemed strange to return to such formality after what had happened the night before. After hearing his name on the prince’s lips. After _feeling_ those lips as they graced his skin.

“Are you recovered?” he asked, careful not to reveal his himself in some unfortunate slip of the tongue. Did Anduin remember? Did he regret it? Was that the reason for obvious discomfort? Saurfang’s curiosity over the prior evening’s events had come full circle, and he suddenly found it was all he could think of. Or perhaps it was the way the wind gently lifted the linen shirt around Anduin’s slender frame, revealing small patches of bare skin that came and went with the breeze and reminding him of his desire.

“I am, thank you.” Anduin turned back to watch the dawn finally breach the horizon, appearing as no more than a sliver of pink creeping across the ocean. “Bit of a headache,” he confessed quietly.

Ah, to be young again. “If that’s all, you should consider yourself lucky.”

“Did you come here looking for me?”

It would be easy to lie, to say that this was simply where he began his rounds each day; a familiar route that took him through the city and back again. It was close enough to the truth that Anduin might even believe him. But Saurfang was tired of half-truths, and he would have wagered that Anduin felt the same. “Yes,” he said. “I was—”

“I wasn’t going to tip myself over the side, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Anduin muttered. “This is hardly the first time my father has been an insufferable horse’s ass.”

Saurfang shook his head, denying both the prince’s concerns and his own amusement at hearing Varian so aptly described. “My fear was that you might not know the difference between the side and the stairs, Your Highness. You drank what must have been an orc’s weight in rum.”

That drew a small and only somewhat bitter laugh from the prince. “Fair enough,” he said. Saurfang watched him swallow down some thought that, from the grimace that suddenly stole across his face, must not be very pleasant. A spike of fear drove through his middle as Anduin took a steadying breath and said, “About last night—”

“I have something for you,” Saurfang found himself blurting out with all the grace of a wild kodo.

Anduin stopped and turned on his heel. “For me?”

Saurfang nodded. “A gift. As thanks.” He cocked his head, considering how accurate that even was anymore. “And an apology. In truth, Your Highness, it has accumulated so many purposes that I no longer recall them all.”

Anduin laughed at that, and this time Saurfang was certain his amusement was genuine. “May I have it?” he asked. “I could use something uplifting at the moment.”

“I will have to retrieve it for you. I could bring it to you here, if you would like.” A part of him hoped Anduin would say yes, just so that he might have some time to consider what he would say when the prince inevitably returned to the subject of the night before.

But instead, Anduin said, “I’ll come with you,” turning away from the rising sun and toward the steps that would take them back down.

“Of course.”

_Fill the silence,_ some harried voice in the back of his mind warned. Once they were down in the valley, surrounded by the rest of Orgrimmar’s early risers, there would be no opportunity to discuss what had happened. He could delay it, if only for a little longer.

But it seemed Anduin had other plans. It really shouldn’t have been so surprising; since the day he’d arrived in Orgrimmar, Anduin had been steadfastly fixed on every single matter that caught his attention. Why should this be any different? “Regarding what happened last night,” he said, sounding very wary all of a sudden. As though he hadn’t expected to make it that far. Saurfang felt his heartbeat quicken with every step as they made their way down into the darkened interior of the wall. “I don’t remember much, at least apart from… well, yelling at you,” he added. “Only a bit here and there. But I know that I must have embarrassed you terribly.”

The confession nearly put Saurfang off a step, almost making him tumble headfirst down the stairs. It was by sheer luck that he managed to grab hold of something solid and keep himself from falling—and taking Anduin with him. “Highness?” he asked, hoping the prince could not hear how high and panicked his voice had become.

“I don’t drink often, and certainly never that much. I can’t really say what possessed me to do so last night. If you would allow me, I have my own gift for you. An apology of sorts.” Anduin stepped out into the valley, turning as Saurfang emerged from the bottom of the wall behind him.

So, the prince was left with no memory of what he’d done. Not the things he’d said, nor his wanton pleas as he writhed in Saurfang’s lap. Strange, Saurfang thought, that it should leave him feeling so profoundly disappointed. Surely it was better than a hasty excuse and a denial that he had ever felt those things at all? That was what he had been expecting, what he’d been steeling himself to face. Anduin did not remember, but he had not _denied it_, either. Could some part of him still wish for those things? That they might share in that intimacy, as mates should?

For the first time, a part of Saurfang dared to hope.

Anduin peered up at him from beneath the fringe of his loose blond hair. He had a smirk on his face, and to Saurfang it was an echo of the unrestrained, belligerent, and drunken prince of the night before. Only now his eyes were clear, and the determination that burned within them was fueled not by rum, but a righteous and well-deserved fury.

“I know how we can beat my father,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep trying to make Varian better in this, and he just keeps getting worse.


	13. They Call It the Reverse Shawshank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like a lot of people, current events have ratcheted up my stress levels, and it's been pretty difficult for me to write until recently. I went into this thinking I would spend most of the time working on fics, but that just didn't happen. I really appreciate everyone who has been so patient waiting for updates, and for those of you who find yourselves stuck in a similar creative limbo, it will end. Right now everyone is dealing with different levels of additional stress, and it's going to manifest in lots of ways, some more inconvenient than others. Be kind to yourself in the meantime. It's okay to not be at your most productive.
> 
> As always, congratulations to those who called it. Bask in your accuracy.

Anduin had no more than breathed the word _Zandalar_ before Saurfang was hurrying him toward the hold, shoving awkwardly and shushing him every time he tried to open his mouth. If not for the mild discomfort he might have been glad for the contact, even accompanied as it was by the strange looks of those around them. The wide eyes and amused chuckles of the previous evening had been far worse, anyway. Surely at a certain point the citizens of Orgrimmar would simply grow accustomed to their warchief manhandling his mate to and fro across the city.

“I take it you don’t approve,” he said wryly as Saurfang shoved him through the door to his own quarters. Anduin caught himself before he tipped forward onto the pile of furs and blankets that had been his bed only too recently, and spun around to find Saurfang tying down the hide. The next best thing to a locked door in Grommash Hold, he supposed.

“You know better than most that there are eyes and ears in Orgrimmar whose loyalties lie elsewhere,” Saurfang muttered. He turned around, blocking the door with his wide body.

Anduin dismissed his concerns with a casual wave. “I can pick Renzik and the others out of a crowd at a hundred paces,” he said.

“Who?”

“No one. Don’t you want to hear what I had in mind?” He was nearly bouncing on his toes in anticipation. This would work, he knew it would, and it would send his father packing back to Stormwind Keep if he thought to so much as set foot upon a Kul Tiran gangplank.

Not that his reasons were strictly personal, of course. The Horde was his home, and as the warchief’s mate he would help to defend it in whatever way he could. Leveling the suddenly and severely unbalanced playing field was only one way he could do that. Providing the Horde with a powerful ally was another.

“No,” Saurfang answered, shaking his head. “I do not. You would risk war—”

“I would _prevent_ a war,” Anduin countered, unconcerned that he had interrupted his warchief. The exchange reminded him of the encounter he’d witnessed between Sylvanas and Lor’themar in Silvermoon. At the time it had been Lor’themar who was not thinking clearly, not taking into account all the many risks that far outweighed the benefits. Anduin, on the other hand, had spent the better part of the morning going over every detail. His head filled with nothing but thoughts of how he could rob the Alliance of the advantages of this sudden windfall, and do so _without_ risking lives—Horde or Alliance.

That was when his mind had turned to _actual_ robbery. Of a sort.

“You seek charity the Zandalari are not known to give freely, if at all, Highness. They would just as soon turn their warships on us.”

“Not if you bring them something they want,” Anduin said. He sat down on the floor in his usual place by the small table, opposite where Saurfang himself sat every day. He folded his legs beneath him and smiled up at his bewildered mate. “And I _know_ what they want, Warchief.”

  
Saurfang had insisted on fetching some food for the two of them before he would even consider entertaining Anduin’s proposal. Once he was certain they were alone, he had motioned for Anduin to continue speaking, his thick fingers working anxiously at the remnants of some unfortunate fruit rind as he listened. He did not seem happy.

“Her name is Talanji. She is their princess,” Anduin explained.

“You have the Zandalari princess in your dungeon.” Saurfang’s look, and his tone, were entirely flat.

“The Alliance does, yes.”

Saurfang snorted. He reached for the half-empty bottle of rum that Anduin had relinquished the night before. It sent a spike of memory to lance uncomfortably though the dead center of Anduin’s mind, and he winced in remembered humiliation. He did not need to think about the heat of Saurfang’s skin, the rough touch of his hands… or how they had pushed him away.

“Your people have no navy to speak of,” Saurfang said very matter-of-factly, “and yet they saw fit to attack the Zandalari on the open seas, where they have the advantage.” There was a hint of grudging admiration in his voice, and it made Anduin laugh.

“You should know by now what sort of man my father is,” he said.

Saurfang started to set the rum back down on the table between them, but at the last second he seemed to think better of it; he eyed Anduin suspiciously, and then swung the bottle to the left, out of Anduin’s reach, and set it down there. “I know well enough. I assume you are about to suggest that I send some of my people into Stormwind to free the princess.”

“More or less.”

“And you believe this plan to be a _gift?_”

Anduin didn’t really have an answer to that, and so he simply shrugged. “It is what you choose to make of it, Warchief,” he said. “I believe we can win Zandalar to our side, and force my father—”

“Force the Alliance.”

“Of course. Force the _Alliance_ back into the stalemate that necessitated this peace accord in the first place.”

Saurfang watched him for a time after he finished speaking, his heavy brow drawn down in thought, and a familiar scowl on his face. Anduin longed to reach across the table and trace the shape of his lips, the scars that marked his brutal past, and the rough stubble of his jaw. But instead he swallowed back that desire, attempting to bury it beneath the weight of the truth. The undeniable, unbearable evidence that he had seen and _felt_ for himself. That Saurfang did not want him.

Anduin had done as Sylvanas suggested, and offered himself up to his mate, no pretense and no reservations whatsoever. He’d crawled into Saurfang’s lap—he cringed at the shame that accompanied the memory as well—and begged to be touched, to be taken. He had pleaded with Saurfang for things he wasn’t even sure he fully understood, and in the midst of all the rum-fueled lust and fear, and the haze of half-remembered words and sensations, Saurfang had pushed him away. He had held Anduin at arm’s length, and told him _no_.

It was humiliating. His only refuge was in the lie that he had constructed as he stood atop Orgrimmar’s front gate, claiming not to remember most of the evening. And Saurfang, whether desperate to forget what had happened himself or genuinely convinced of Anduin’s sincerity, had accepted it without question. He’d even seemed _relieved_. Anduin had never considered himself a prideful man, but even he was forced to admit that his ego had taken a rather significant hit from that.

“Is it the peace that concerns you most, Prince Anduin,” Saurfang abruptly asked, “or the opportunity to strike a blow at your father?”

Anduin sat up straight. Why would that matter? And more importantly, why did _Saurfang_ care? He opened his mouth to ask as much, but Saurfang cut him off.

“I have no love for your father, Highness,” he explained. “In fact, I would like nothing more than to wipe the sneer from his face the next time I am forced to endure his company. But I have that luxury, even if honor prevents me from acting on it.” He leaned forward, placing his forearm on the wooden tabletop. Anduin glanced down at the crisscrossed scars that marked his flesh, the way the corded swell of his muscles shifted and flexed beneath the skin, and swallowed. “He is not my blood, but he is yours. Your only kin.”

“The Horde—”

“Is your home. I will no longer attempt to convince you otherwise, as I have promised. Even if your father should continue to insist upon this stubborn course of action, you will always have a place here.”

Anduin cleared his throat, looking away so that he could secretly blink back the tears that threatened to spill over and give him away. He cleared his throat, muttering a quiet thanks under his breath and hoping Saurfang had not noticed.

He needn’t have worried. “Varian is your father,” Saurfang continued, seemingly heedless of Anduin’s shifting emotions. His look had grown distant, his eyes haunted by some pain Anduin could only begin to guess at, and never wished to know for himself. “You would regret losing the years you might have with one another. They are precious. And they are all too few.”

Although Anduin understood the source of Saurfang’s concerns, and he had tremendous sympathy for the man, it hardly seemed the same. His father had purposely shunned his own son. _He_ had created the rift that now lay between them, and Anduin had only ever tried his best to cross it. The time for sentimentality and what-ifs seemed well over.

He acknowledged the advice with a nod, and then pointedly changed the subject so as to avoid more uncomfortable—and frankly unwelcome—advice. “I have already considered who might accompany me to Stormwind,” he said instead.

Saurfang’s eyes flew open in surprise. He snapped his mouth shut with an audible _clack_. “_Accompany_ you?” he repeated incredulously. “Absolutely not.”

“This is my plan—”

“You would have me send you back to Stormwind not as the prince, but as an enemy of the Alliance. Did you hear nothing I have said, Your Highness? Did you forget what happened the last time you defied the king?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Anduin insisted. “But I know all the ways in and out of the city—even those I shouldn’t.” Perhaps especially those he shouldn’t. “I know the patrol routes and schedules, and when the guards change shifts. I know where most of Shaw’s people prefer to lurk, and, more importantly, I know how to get into the Stockade and back out again without _killing_ anyone.” He was still their prince, after all. Even one life lost in the pursuit of peace would be one too many. “It will be next to impossible to retrieve the princess without me.”

“I could simply say no.”

The reminder of his last _no_ still weighed on Anduin like a heavy blanket. He sighed sharply and said, “Please, don’t dismiss me as he did. I can help. I can do this for the Horde, if you allow me.” He hesitated. “_If_ you support me.”

Anduin liked to think he could see regret in the depths of Saurfang’s eyes. He remembered the apology that had been offered in exchange for his bottle of rum, and the one promised later, and he knew that Saurfang meant both. Even if, in their mutual determination to pretend as though the prior evening had never happened, Saurfang had never actually delivered on the second. But could he truly accept that Anduin was capable of all those things his father had denied him? Accepting blame for his mistakes, for his behavior, was one thing—changing would be another entirely.

Anduin waited, and noting that he felt strangely numb. He could hardly feel his fingers and toes, and all the energy in him seemed to have pooled in his gut, churning like a vast, anxious sea. There was more riding on the warchief’s answer than a mission. More than the balance between the Horde and the Alliance.

At last, Saurfang blew out a long, resigned sigh, and asked, “Who would you have accompany you?”

Anduin bit back on an excited shout. “Well, a shadowhunter to start with,” he said, almost breathless in his enthusiasm. “Apart from the obvious benefits, it will help to have a troll with us if we hope to convince the princess to go along with the escape.”

Saurfang nodded. “I know of one who might suit your purposes. Who else, then?” He still seemed very unhappy about the prospect of sending anyone, let alone Anduin, into the Stormwind Stockade. Anduin knew his next addition to the team would not help matters.

“Nathanos Blightcaller.”

That drew a strangled objection from Saurfang before he could rein himself in again. “Blightcaller?!” he demanded, growling the Forsaken’s name.

“I know, he doesn’t seem at all right for the task, but I trust him.” He wasn’t entirely sure _why_, but there it stood regardless.

“You would be wiser not to.”

Anduin nodded. “Perhaps.” He wanted to ask for trust in this, as well, but it seemed it was unnecessary; Saurfang voiced no further objections to his choice, and Anduin took his silence as agreement, however grudging. It would hardly matter in a moment, anyway.

“I’d also like to include Lor’themar Theron,” he added, bracing himself for the backlash.

As expected, Saurfang’s eyes lit up with fury, and his arms flexed dangerously as he clenched his fists. “No,” he said, that one word like the warning roll of distant thunder.

“I understand your concerns,” Anduin said, “but Lor’themar—”

“Abducted you. Held you prisoner. He is fortunate I have not sent for his head.” There was an unspoken _yet_ in that statement that made Anduin step on the rest of his objection. Saurfang shook his head. “I will not send you to Stormwind with the regent lord at your side.”

“As shortsighted and foolish as his actions were, I understand why he did it. And you should too,” Anduin said firmly, pointing a finger at Saurfang’s chest across the table. The gesture was met with mild surprise, and Anduin tried not to show his amusement. “He wanted to protect his people, to protect the Horde. This mission will achieve those same ends. Why would he jeopardize that?”

Saurfang shook his head. “I do not trust Lor’themar with your life.”

Anduin’s expression softened, and he looked up at Saurfang with a swell of affection in his heart. It was a shame they could never be more to one another, he thought. That there would never be more between them than this strange almost-partnership. “Then trust _me_,” he said, confident in himself and his plan, and hoping Saurfang might accept some of that confidence too.

  
Two days later, Anduin stood on the dock overlooking Bladefist Bay. Behind him he could hear Rokhan, the troll Saurfang had tasked with leading their mission, as he reassured the warchief once more than his mate would be safe in the shadowhunter’s care. Further back on the shore an orc grunt held the end of Reverence’s reins. He stood as far from the stallion as he could manage, as though Reverence might reach out and snap at him. Anduin couldn’t say for certain that his fears were unfounded.

At the far end of the dock, closer to the water and waiting impatiently for the ship, stood Lor’themar. His long hair was caught in the wind, whipping the pale strands across his face as he stood, scowling at the rest of their gathering allies. Scowling at Anduin in particular.

Unlike Saurfang, Anduin held no grudge against the regent lord. He could see that the same was not true in the reverse, but that was unsurprising; one human prince and two Forsaken had undermined his efforts with all the finesse of a drunken ogre. Anduin had slipped through his fingers, and now he had been tasked by his warchief with accompanying and protecting the very person whose presence he saw as a direct threat against his people. On a mission to enemy territory, no less. It was a wonder that he had even agreed. Then again, Anduin could only imagine he had not been offered much choice in the matter.

“Tell me, Prince Anduin,” Lor’themar said as he sidled up to the prince. “Do you think your father will merely imprison us upon our arrival in Stormwind? Or will he save himself the trouble, and execute myself, Blightcaller, and the troll on the spot?”

Anduin sighed. “I suppose nothing I say will convince you that this isn’t an elaborate trap?”

“I would hardly call any part of this farce _elaborate_,” Lor’themar said, sniffing disdainfully, “but no.”

“Well, in that case, I suppose you’ll just have to trust that your warchief has no desire to see your head mounted on a pike.”

Lor’themar laughed darkly. “I trust in _that_ even less than I trust you, Your Highness. However, you may as well know that at the first sign of betrayal I _will_ respond accordingly.”

Anduin could only shrug lightly at him, wondering if he should take that to mean a threat of death, or another kidnapping. In either case, there was little he could do about it but keep faith in the others and hope that the mission was successful.

At nearly the same moment he had that thought, a shadow passed over his back, and he turned his head to find a familiar dark figure standing behind them both.

“Regent Lord,” Blightcaller sneered.

“Your Dark Lady is late,” Lor’themar complained, not bothering to acknowledge the greeting. “Remarkable that you can be so timely in your arrival at _my_ doorstep.”

“My queen has generously provided the warchief with the means to carry out this little foray into Stormwind’s underbelly,” Blightcaller said. “Unless you wish to find your way by other means, I suggest you exercise a measure of patience.”

Lor’themar only scoffed and rolled his eye, turning back toward the sea with his arms crossed over his chest. In Silvermoon Anduin had come to learn that was a fairly blatant dismissal.

Blightcaller ignored it.

“By the way,” he continued, his tone almost too friendly, especially for him, “I could not help but overhear your earlier conversation with the prince as I approached. Rest assured, Regent Lord, that should any harm befall our warchief’s mate, _I_ will _also_ respond accordingly. And you need not worry yourself with the more unsettling details; I am certain a man of your intellect is capable of making an educated guess.”

And with that, sliding the last word across the air between them on a contemptuous hiss, Blightcaller turned on his heel in a whirl of dark cloth and rustling leather, leaving them to stand in silence.

“It seems you’ve made friends in rather low places, Prince Anduin,” Lor’themar muttered several moments later.

Anduin could only blink and stare after Blightcaller. Apparently he had, and he wasn’t entirely certain _how_.

The _Banshee’s Wail_ appeared on the horizon not long after that, its tattered sails raised high in the bright sun. As the black shape of the ship grew closer, and those gathered for the mission made their way to the end of the dock, Saurfang pulled Anduin aside.

He pitched his voice low so the others could not hear. “If you should be discovered—”

“My own safety is the least of my worries, Warchief,” Anduin assured him. He didn’t bother to mention Lor’themar’s threat, or Blightcaller’s promise of swift and deadly retribution. He still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of either, if he was being honest.

“It is foremost among mine,” Saurfang replied. “Your father will not understand.”

Anduin laughed. “That is something of an understatement. But what else can we do?”

Saurfang opened his mouth as if intending to speak, but in the end he said nothing. Anduin wanted to believe there was something in his eyes that might have made for better words—things he wished to hear, but knew, after that embarrassing night in the hold, he never would. Instead, Saurfang reached out with one enormous hand and grasped Anduin’s shoulder. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” he said.

Anduin answered his gesture with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Please take care of my gift,” he said, mostly just to change the subject. “I would take her with me if I could, but…”

“I will look after the beast as if she were my own,” Saurfang said. Anduin knew he meant it, too.

“Two days.”

Saurfang grunted. “Two days.”

In two days’ time, Anduin would have secured the peace he had worked so hard to maintain, far from his father’s reach, with the princess of the Zandalari at his side.

Or he would be locked away in a room deep within Stormwind Keep, having potentially started a war, with no hope of ever seeing anything outside of the city, or his mate, ever again.

  
They sailed for the Eastern Kingdoms in the bright light of day, following a well-known route. It was exactly what the Alliance scout ships would expect of the Forsaken flagship, and hardly worth noting. If anyone bothered to note more than the presence of the _Banshee’s Wail_ on the seas they would assume the vessel was engaged in nothing more nefarious than usual. Granted, by Alliance standards that still made them considerably more dangerous than any other Horde vessel. But Anduin was confident they would be ignored regardless. Just another Horde ship, bound for somewhere the good people of the Alliance would never dare set foot.

That would all change come nightfall, of course.

Once they were safely cloaked in darkness, the _Banshee’s Wail_ would turn its black sails toward the south, veering away from its supposed destination along the coast of Tirisfal. Alliance spotters were far less concerned about the comings and goings of ships holding anchor offshore from Westfall, and so that was where they would wait. Then, in the longest hours of the evening, Anduin, Blightcaller, Rokhan, and Lor’themar would row ashore. Anduin had provided Rokhan with everything he knew of the Stormwind sewer system, which could be accessed from a small culvert just on the edge of the city. From there they would make their way into the Stockade from below, and, with any luck, to Princess Talanji’s cell.

That was if _it_ all went according to plan.

Anduin stood upon the deck, taking advantage of the lack of Alliance sails in the area to enjoy a bit of sun. He could not afford to be seen sailing aboard a Forsaken ship while there was still a possibility the _Banshee’s Wail_ might make for Alliance waters. Even if their immediate destination was indeed Tirisfal, his presence aboard the ship would be brought to the attention of his father much earlier than intended. That simply would not do.

But the belowdecks of a Forsaken vessel, even one so much better appointed, like the _Wail_, were not exactly what he would call pleasant. Being trapped in the captain’s stateroom for hours, surrounded by the musty remnants of whatever unfortunate soul once called the ship their own, was not much better than being in a cell. He could only imagine how poor Reverence was faring in the hold. Every time the all clear sounded from above, Anduin bounded back up to the deck, breathing in the fresh air and basking in the light. The first time he had emerged it had been to the quiet snickers of the crew. A mean look from Blightcaller had silenced them, much to Anduin’s surprise.

Now, as they sailed calm seas with the setting sun at their backs, Anduin watched Blightcaller as he stood above on the quarterdeck, speaking with the ship’s captain. The Forsaken glanced his way once or twice during the conversation, narrowing his red-orange eyes suspiciously.

Anduin had long wondered how much humanity was actually left within the Forsaken people. They were alive, but not truly alive, and he wished to understand exactly what that meant. Until now, he’d never really found himself with an opportunity to ask. He relished the thought of having his curiosity sated, and learning about the lives they had forged from the remnants of the Lich King’s control. Although, having become acquainted with a few of their kind during his time with the Horde, he suspected that his questions would much more likely be met with disdain, instead. That was mildly disappointing, but in truth it was also hardly surprising.

“Your incessant staring is beginning to get on my nerves, boy,” Blightcaller growled as he came down the steps. “What is it you want this time?”

“Me?” Anduin asked. He realized too late that Blightcaller would likely not appreciate that response. He didn’t seem to enjoy repeating himself.

“No, the _other_ irritating prince who hasn’t the sense to keep his eyes to himself. Yes, _you_.”

“My apologies,” Anduin said. “I was lost in thought. I must not have realized I was staring.”

Blightcaller grumbled something unpleasant and joined Anduin at the railing. He stood with his arms behind his back, one wrist clasped in the opposite hand. His back was arrow-straight, and his glowing eyes looked out upon the glittering sea impassively. “You seemed… rather friendly with the warchief, earlier,” he remarked after some time had passed.

Anduin blinked and turned just enough to look at him. “Well, we’ve spoken about what happened in Stormwind, and—”

“No, you stupid boy. _Friendly_.” There was a slight twitch at the corner of Blightcaller’s mouth. If Anduin hadn’t known better he might have thought the Forsaken archer was actually amused. “Not that I care, but I take that to mean you followed my lady’s advice.”

Her advice? Anduin thought back beyond the hasty planning of the past few days, and the journey by zeppelin to Orgrimmar, and—

And then he remembered the lewd and rather humiliating conversation with the Banshee Queen in the decrepit manor house. He felt his cheeks grow hot at the memory. “I—I—” he stammered, his hands gripping the wooden rail so tight his palms burned.

“You needn’t assume I wish to hear any of the tawdry details.”

“There are none!” Anduin finally managed to force past the lump that had formed in his throat.

Blightcaller only arched one eyebrow curiously, peering at him from the corner of his eye.

“I mean,” Anduin corrected, abruptly uncertain whether or not that was actually true, “not exactly…”

“Either something happened or it _didn’t_, boy. You cannot half-fuck an orc.”

“I—Blightcaller!” Anduin exclaimed. “My relationship with the warchief—”

“Unless you wish for every other soul aboard this ship to know your business in short order, I suggest you keep your voice down. Now—” Blightcaller cocked his shoulders back and lifted his chin, as though preparing to dispense his own sage advice. The thought was mildly horrifying. “You may tell me exactly what _did_ happen, and I will judge for myself if you managed to properly do as my lady instructed.”

More so than marrying the warchief of the Horde, or lying naked in a bed beside Saurfang in Ironforge, or even briefly finding himself the unwitting student of a very forward banshee, this moment was so surreal that Anduin found he could scarcely process what was happening. Before he could think, or stop himself, he heard his own voice say, “I offered myself to him. Exactly as she said I should.” He winced.

“_Exactly?_” Blightcaller pressed.

“Well… I told him what I wanted. Isn’t that enough?”

“Were you clothed?”

“What?! Of course I was!” For a few fleeting seconds, Anduin seriously contemplating jumping overboard. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I distinctly recall the Dark Lady instructing you to remove your clothing. Did you listen to nothing she told you?”

Anduin muttered several very uncouth things under his breath, and then said, “I was _drunk_, I didn’t think—”

“You were drunk?” Blightcaller scoffed, and his mouth did twist into something of a smile then. “It’s no wonder you failed.”

“How is that?” Anduin demanded. “I did everything she told me to, mostly, and he still refused.”

Blightcaller turned sharply to face him. “He refused you?”

“He pushed me away and said _no_. I would count that as a fairly clear refusal.” Quietly, Anduin added, “I never should have listened to either of you.”

“You stupid, stupid boy,” Blightcaller sneered. Anduin turned his incredulous gaze on the Forsaken, and he was met with a condescending look that made an awful heat rise under his skin. “Of course he refused you.”

Anduin only stared blankly back at him.

“My lady was right, it is fortunate you’ve been wedded to the only other creature on Azeroth that can possibly match your idiocy measure for measure. You were drunk, _Your Highness_,” Blightcaller said, making Anduin’s title sound as much like an insult as possible. “Do you imagine a venerated warrior like Saurfang would ever risk his honor to accept an offer made under such questionable circumstances?”

“He didn’t say—”

“Are you certain of that? _Think_, boy. You were drinking, and obviously too inexperienced to be aware of your own pathetic limits. Are you certain you recall every detail? That you remember _exactly_ what words were exchanged?”

Anduin pressed his lips into a thin line and stared hard at the water as the _Banshee’s Wail_ cut through the waves. But no matter how hard he tried to remember, he couldn’t. And that meant Blightcaller could very well be right; Anduin might have misheard, or even forgotten entirely.

The realization left a hollow pit in his stomach, and Anduin groaned quietly at himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his forehead to the railing between his hands. “I’m such a fool.”

“Yes.”

“I told him I didn’t remember anything. I _lied_.”

“Half-lied, it seems.”

He stood up straight again. “Half of a lie is still a lie,” he said, exasperated. “I was so afraid that Saurfang would want to talk about what I’d done. I made up an excuse about being too drunk to remember, and then changed the subject. I thought he wanted to forget it had ever happened, but what if he thought I was ashamed of what I’d done?”

“Well, you certainly should be. Just not for the reasons you initially believed,” Blightcaller helpfully supplied.

“How do I fix this?”

The look Blightcaller gave him seemed to question why Anduin would _ever_ ask him. Nevertheless, he narrowed his eyes and hummed quietly to himself, as though seriously contemplating how Anduin might repair his tattered pride and save a relationship that could hardly be called a relationship at all. “What happened _after_ you humiliated yourself and foolishly attempted to salvage the situation by lying?”

“Do you really have to ask like that?” Anduin sighed. “We returned to the hold to discuss my plan to infiltrate the Stockade.”

“That’s all?”

He thought of the uncomfortable silence that followed, after Saurfang had given Anduin everything he’d asked for, including his blessing to carry out the very risky mission. They had lingered awkwardly for several minutes, neither sure of what to say to the other, nothing between them but empty space and the remnants of a shared breakfast.

Then Saurfang had remembered his own gift to Anduin. A _real_ gift, rather than a headache and a potential prelude to war. To Anduin’s surprise and incredible joy, the warchief had returned after a short time carrying a direwolf pup. The little creature had wriggled in his grasp, hanging by her scruff at the end of his large hand. A small ribbon adorned her neck. She was nearly the size of a full-grown hound already, but according to Saurfang she was only just weaned—and a runt. Anduin found both concepts rather difficult to grasp, though he’d seen grown direwolves plenty of times in Orgrimmar. It just seemed impossible that she would get even _bigger_. Though never quite as big as the others. And to his delight they had taken to one another almost immediately; her blue eyes and silver fur had felt so familiar, so much like a reminder of his home, that Anduin hadn’t been able to hold back a gasp when he’d realized.

They had spoken of little else for the rest of the morning, wiling away the hours as the pup—whom Anduin had not yet named—gently gnawed on his fingers, alternately wriggling in his hold and sprawling across him as she nuzzled into his clothes. Saurfang had explained that she would bond to Anduin, learn his scent and coming to sense his moods, and bear him anywhere he wished. She would go into battle with him, and, if his life were ever threatened, even die for him. Anduin had no intention of ever putting her at such risk, but he could appreciate the depth of the bond that orcs had cultivated with their preferred mounts.

“He gave me a wolf pup,” he said. He heard his own voice and wondered how he could have ever believed he was fooling anyone about his feelings for the warchief.

“Pardon?”

“A direwolf. Runt of the litter, apparently, but he said she would be more than big enough to carry me.”

The look Blightcaller gave him made the hairs on the back of Anduin’s neck stand on end. 

“What?”

“You believed the warchief harbored no feelings for you, even _after_ receiving such a gift from him?” Blightcaller asked.

Anduin did not appreciate the subtle accusation in his tone. “What was I supposed to think? What difference does it make, anyway? And what do you care?” It could have just as easily been a new pair of boots, or a knife. Saurfang had simply chosen something more practical, something he clearly believed Anduin would enjoy. It was a very thoughtful gesture, but no more significant than that, despite whatever Blightcaller seemed to believe.

“Setting aside the obvious,” Blightcaller said, gesturing to himself, “do you have any _concept_ of the significance of such a gift?”

“Well, I’m certain he put a great deal of thought into it…”

“It has nothing to do with _thought_, you hapless child. Orcish direwolves are bred to be lifelong companions. They are partners, not _pets_. Nor are they merely beasts of burden or tools to be used and discarded in battle.”

“I know that—”

“They are treasured companions among their people. Priceless, despite how commonplace and mundane they seem outside of their size. In certain clans an orc who has bonded to a direwolf might give his or her life for one, just as easily as the beast would sacrifice its own. They are looked upon as _family_.”

Anduin had let his doubt show as he listened to this latest lecture, but at the word _family_ he found his disbelief abruptly turned inward; of _course_, how could he not have realized? Saurfang hadn’t simply given him a companion, and promising to look after her was a far more than a mere courtesy. He had offered Anduin a tremendous gift, significant in a way Anduin had completely overlooked. Despite his claim that the pup was meant as both an apology and a thank you, Anduin could not imagine anything he had done or been made to endure that would warrant such a gesture.

Unless Saurfang’s generosity had an additional purpose. One he had been hesitant to name because of his own uncertainty.

Unless Blightcaller was right.

“I didn’t realize,” he muttered.

“Of course not. You simply traipsed into Orgrimmar one sunny afternoon, blithely unaware of anything more complex than _orcs green_, _trolls blue_, _Forsaken dead_. Did you believe that Stormwind held the patent on culture?” Blightcaller scoffed. He seemed more concerned with the gaps in Anduin’s education than being right. “One could hardly accuse me of harboring any love for those lumbering brutes, yet even _I_ know well enough to tell when I’ve been paid a great honor by one. And you have the audacity to think yourself a _diplomat_.”

Anduin was stung by his words, but he could not deny the truth in them. He had explored Orgrimmar front to back, every alley and lane, and memorized the locations of all the most significant districts, but how much had he actually learned about its people and their ways? Not nearly enough, if this recent development was any indication. He sincerely hoped he hadn’t offended Saurfang. That was the last thing he wanted after everything else he’d done.

He was just about to express his thanks for the brusque but ultimately invaluable insight when Blightcaller, who never quite seemed to know when to leave well enough alone, said, “One might have thought you would be grateful regardless of the gift. Perhaps if the warchief had delivered the beast wrapped in a blue and gold _bow_. You might have shown the proper appreciation then.”

In fact, he had. Anduin wasn’t about to mention that, though. “Now, wait a minute,” he said, “I _was_ grateful, and I made certain the warchief knew it. I simply didn’t understand the true significance of his gift.” He shook his head. “Why would I listen to you, anyway? You Forsaken claim not to have feelings. At least not the sort that would do me any good with Saurfang. How do I know this isn’t an attempt to humiliate me?” He snorted disdainfully. “That seems far more in keeping with your past behavior.”

“Because I know better than you, _boy_, and you would be wise to accept this undeserved charity without complaint. Both mine and the Dark Lady’s.”

“I never asked either of you to interfere!” Anduin knew he was being unreasonable; it was only because of Sylvanas—and to a lesser extent Blightcaller—that he’d gotten as far as he had with Saurfang, if for no other reason than her advice had put the idea in his head in the first place. And even if his own haste and uncertainty had managed to immediately set him back again. Still, Blightcaller was _insufferable_, and Anduin struggled against the thought of giving him credit for anything.

“It was painfully clear that you could not manage it on your own. Look at you.” Blightcaller gestured to him. “A helpless little cub. Too frightened to tell his own mate how he feels.”

Without meaning to, without even really thinking, Anduin snapped, “Like you’ve told Sylvanas?”

The satisfaction of seeing Blightcaller’s eyes widen in shock was short lived; Anduin winced and scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head at himself as the words and their true impact registered. “I apologize, that was uncalled for,” he said quickly.

His apology actually seemed to annoy the Forsaken _more_, if that was possible. “Never show remorse for striking a clean blow,” Blightcaller muttered, looking away. A beat or two passed in silence before he added, “She knows.”

Like so much of what he’d seen and heard in recent days, Anduin wasn’t quite sure what to say in response to such a confession. “I imagine it’s difficult…” _Being dead,_ he nearly said.

“Not nearly as difficult as one might imagine,” Blightcaller replied, smirking. Then his dark lips dropped back into a more familiar grimace. “But my lady has many concerns. Far more _pressing_ concerns.”

Of course. The Forsaken were not eternal. They were in a constant state of decay, and their numbers would not replenish naturally. The war with the Legion had cost them dearly, like every race of the Horde and Alliance, but they would not simply bounce back in time. Anduin knew that much without having to ask. That was why Sylvanas had approached him as she did, and why she was so keen to help him restore the peace accord with Stormwind, and repair his relationship with Saurfang. In the end it all benefited her people. And, at least as a happy side effect, herself.

Anduin suddenly felt very ashamed of himself. Matters between the members of the Horde, and within the different factions themselves, were far more complicated than one might assume from the outside. He had been given a rare glimpse into their private struggles, and he’d disregarded the privilege in favor of self-pity.

At least there was _something_ he could say that might make things right. “It occurs to me that I never thanked you,” he said, casually changing the subject. “Your warning to Lor’themar. I had hoped this mission might help to repair the rift that’s formed between the blood elves and the rest of the Horde over this marriage. Still, he seems determined to think the worst of me. It’s good to know that I have your support.”

“Save your sentimental nonsense for the warchief,” Blightcaller spat. “I merely saw the opportunity to unsettle that pompous elf and gladly took it. Your safety means only as much to me as the threat of reprisal should I fail to return you intact.”

Anduin leaned into the railing and looked out over the water to hide his smile. “Of course,” he said. “It was silly of me to think otherwise.”

Blightcaller was silent beside him apart from a quiet grunt. No more than a casual acknowledgement that he’d said anything at all. But from the corner of his eye, shadowed by the setting sun, Anduin thought for certain he could see the Forsaken’s eyes eyes narrow in the slightest hint of a smile.

  
To Anduin’s surprise and immense relief, the first steps of their plan to infiltrate Stormwind had gone flawlessly. The moon had disappeared behind thick clouds, allowing the _Banshee’s Wail_ to remain hidden off the shore of Westfall, visible only as a dark spot against an already dark horizon. The boat trip to the outskirts of Stormwind had been far from pleasant, but Anduin hadn’t really expected much else, and with Blightcaller and Rokhan at his side he was relatively unbothered by Lor’themar’s accusing glare.

Luck—and, he hoped, the Light—seemed to be on their side.

They reached the drainage culvert at the appointed time, and Anduin explained the next leg of the mission as planned. “We’ll follow this tunnel until we come to a three-way split. The left fork will take us beneath the Stockade,” he said.

“Delivering us to our doom by hand, are you?” Lor’themar drawled lazily.

“I suppose you will just have to wait and see.” Anduin clipped each word sharply as they rolled off his tongue in his best Orcish. He caught a chuckle from Rokhan, and a devious smirk that brightened Blightcaller’s eyes merrily. It was impossible to guess whether they were merely amused by the petty exchange, or as sick of Lor’themar’s vitriol as Anduin.

“Portals might have been simpler.”

“My father’s best mages keep a magic dampening field in place over the prison. A skilled mage might get us in, but—” he shook his head, “—we would likely become stuck after that.” And there was no telling who would be there to greet them when they arrived.

Lor’themar’s only answer was a soft grunt. All things considered, it was better than anything else he might have said.

After walking for some time in darkness, ankle-deep in things Anduin would prefer not to think about, they came upon the indicated split. Rokhan led the way, with Anduin following close behind. It was only a short distance from there to the grate that would grant them access to the prison. After that, the only obstacle that remained was a quick climb up into the corridor, and then a few turns to the princess’ cell—give or take a dozen or more guards.

He had expected Lor’themar to complain about being forced to climb up through a filthy sewer grate, but the regent lord surprised him for the first time that evening by hauling himself up and out without comment. It was Blightcaller who scoffed disdainfully, wiping his gloved hands on his coat after he emerged beside them. Anduin ducked his head and hid a smirk, but he had a feeling—from the rather nasty scowl aimed his way—that Blightcaller had seen it regardless.

Lor’themar gave the Forsaken a once-over full of judgment. “Don’t you live in a sewer?” he asked.

Blightcaller sneered, shouldering past Anduin to take the position behind Rokhan. He didn’t bother to answer the regent lord’s question. Anduin had a feeling he was preoccupied by thoughts of all the many ways he could murder Lor’themar and make it look like an accident.

“She’ll be this way,” Anduin said, pointing to the right once the grate was back in place. “In the east wing.”

“Surely we can expect to encounter resistance?” Blightcaller asked. “This is the princess of the Zandalari, not some flea-bitten pickpocket.”

Anduin had prepared for this, and discussed it at length with Saurfang before leaving Orgrimmar. Killing was not an option. Rokhan had been given explicit instructions to follow Anduin’s lead when it came to the guards, but there was no telling how Blightcaller and Lor’themar might react to the news. “Some,” he said, choosing not to be more specific.

Before the mission, Anduin and Rokhan had briefly discussed their options, as well as how they would bypass the guards posted at regular intervals throughout the prison. As a shadowhunter, Rokhan had assured Anduin that he could could get them through most of the way undetected. It was the last stretch before the princess that had left them both uncertain. Anduin thought perhaps he might know of a way, but he had decided not to say anything to the others. Not yet. He preferred to keep some things to himself unless it became absolutely necessary. Not for Stormwind’s sake, but his own.

“Keep ya weapons away,” Rokhan instructed, as if reading Anduin’s thoughts. “I’ll have no killin’ unless it become necessary. Warchief’s orders.”

Blightcaller hummed, clearly displeased. Lor’themar was suspiciously quiet. Anduin suspected he had every intention of fighting his way back out of the Stockade if need be, but he seemed content to wait. Given what they were facing, Anduin found his patience admirable, if slightly unsettling.

The shroud of shadows that Rokhan was able to call upon kept them concealed as they made their way through the prison. Every so often an unusually perceptive prisoner—worgen, mostly—would look their way, eyes narrowed or snout aloft, scenting the air. If anyone knew who it was passing by the bars, they kept it to themselves. The few guards they passed seemed none the wiser. An oversight, perhaps, that his father had not entreated Genn to spare some of his people for the task. One that worked well in the Horde’s favor.

At the last turn, Rokhan abruptly stopped. He held his left hand up, fist clenched, as he checked around the corner. “7th Legion,” he muttered. “No ordinary guards.”

Anduin peered past him to see for himself; sure enough, standing post in the corridor outside Princess Talanji’s cell, were two soldiers in the livery of the 7th Legion. One held a staff at his side. A mage. That did not bode well for their chances of making it past undetected.

“We will have to kill them,” Blightcaller said.

“No. You heard Rokhan.” Between the troll’s instructions and the warchief’s orders, Anduin wanted to believe that he could push them to accept this one crucial condition.

But Rokhan was shaking his head. He frowned around his tusks. “There be no other way if we wanna complete our mission,” he said, dashing Anduin’s hopes. “I can make it quick.”

“_No_,” Anduin insisted, “there is another way.” He really, _really_ did not want to do it, but… The repercussions of freeing the princess and taking the lives of his own people were simply too dire to consider—even if he didn’t find the very idea abhorrent to begin with. Despite his anger, a part of him hoped to one day face his father again not as an enemy, but as a son. He could not do that with the blood of Stormwind’s soldiers on his hands. And he would not allow their mission, ultimately meant to _preserve_ the peace, to instead become the catalyst for war. “Stay here,” he said, “and do nothing unless I signal for you. Keep to the shadows, out of the way.”

Rokhan watched him, curious—or else convinced Anduin was truly mad. Behind them Lor’themar made a disgusted sound. “Ah, this would be where he betrays us, and we end up in a cell alongside the Zandalari. Are you both just going to stand there while he forfeits our lives in order to win back his blasted father’s affections?”

“If you don’t trust me, you are welcome to step out into the corridor yourself and try your luck. But I would advise against it.” Anduin could see the green glow of Lor’themar’s one good eye through the darkness. It narrowed dangerously, his glare a promise of swift revenge.

Blightcaller chuckled quietly beside them. “Afraid of a few human guards, Regent Lord? I’ve seen nothing so far to suggest a retreat would be impossible if we were to be discovered. But perhaps you disagree.”

“Hardly,” Lor’themar scoffed. But he offered no further objections, either.

Anduin wondered if Blightcaller would appreciate his gratitude for so neatly distracting the blood elf, and making their mission just a little bit easier. He assumed not. It was a strange sort of push and pull they had developed, and he was never entirely sure what to make of it, but he knew enough to feel certain his gratitude would be rebuffed rudely. And anyway, there were more important matters to contend with at the moment; with the issue of his intentions temporarily settled, Anduin would have to make good on his word that they could still succeed without resorting to slaughter. The others were waiting, and he could not expect them to wait long.

Taking a deep breath, he inched as close as he dared to the corner. The rough stone scraped his back through his linen shirt, and not for the first time he wished he’d thought to wear something a bit more appropriate for infiltration. He also wished their mission had not been necessary at all, and that his father had just _listened in the first place_.

But wishes weren’t going to do him much good now.

He had been a devoted student of the Light for many years, outspoken in his belief that faith was a powerful tool for good. Under the Prophet Velen’s tutelage he had learned a great deal about the Light’s ability to heal, to bless, and to soothe.

What he was about to do had not come from those lessons. In between the many hours he spent glued to Velen’s side, bombarding the ancient draenei with question after question about the Light and its abilities, he had also learned the simple truth that all light casts a shadow. And that two things which might seem very distinct, may even seem like opposites, might not be so different after all.

Still concealed within Rokhan’s shroud, Anduin locked eyes with the 7th Legion soldier. Opening himself to the Light, he reached out, seeking the place within every being where a priest’s prayers might reach, and insinuating himself into the spaces between like searching roots. Where the Light offered peace it now also granted power. And where Anduin might calm a panicked mind by projecting a sense of ease, now he sought to control. All the pathways, all the channels within the living mind were the same, regardless of intent. It was a well-worn path he walked, through a forest that did not know better than to grant him safe passage this time.

The soldier’s body relaxed, her eyes drooped, and she loosened her grip on the sword at her side. The mage next to her didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He remained standing as he had been, chin up and shoulders pressed back. A credit to his training.

With little more than a thought, Anduin prompted the soldier to move. She didn’t fight his influence, didn’t even attempt a struggle, and the effort it took to make her cross the corridor was almost laughable. There was a good reason mind control was so frowned upon, he noted as he worked.

“What’s gotten into you?” the mage asked, tilting his hood back. “You look sick. Are you feeling alright?”

Had he been just a bit faster, the mage might have managed to erect a barrier around himself to deflect the blow. But the soldier’s attack took him by surprise, and the fist that connected with the side of his head sent him crashing into the wall, where he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Beside him Anduin distantly caught the sound of someone swearing. He could only spare enough concentration to note it, dismiss it, and carry on.

There was pushback along the invisible tether that connected his mind to the soldier’s. She was fighting him, finally. She knew something was wrong. Anduin was confident he could hold her long enough for the others to get the princess out of the cell, but their plan had been to enter and exit unseen. Leaving a witness would undo all they had managed to accomplish so far. It would implicate the Horde, as well. He couldn’t have that.

With a frown—of concentration and conscience—he guided the soldier over to the front of the cell. She removed her helm at his prompting and gripped the thick iron bars with both hands. There was a moment’s hesitation as she struggled again, and then she drew back and slammed her head forward with enough force to knock herself out, leaving Anduin reeling from the echo of the impact. The connection between them was instantly severed, and he stumbled back with a gasp.

“Dat be some dark magic, Ya Highness,” Rokhan muttered.

Anduin winced and nodded. “Necessary,” he managed to hiss between breaths. He sagged against the wall until a pair of hands drew him upright, and he leaned into the support they offered. For a moment he was certain Blightcaller had grudgingly helped him yet again. But when he looked up, it was Lor’themar who stood over him, holding him there, watching him with an expression that seemed oddly approving. Anduin wanted to laugh; if only he’d known sooner what might have impressed the regent lord, he could have mind controlled his way out of Silvermoon and saved himself the trouble.

“They won’t be out for long,” Blightcaller said. “Let’s move.”

Anduin nodded, shuffling forward and stepping out of the effect of Rokhan’s shroud. He reappeared mere steps from the princess’ cell, and heard her gasp before he lifted his eyes to look upon her for the first time.

She was tall—taller than any troll he’d ever seen. Anduin knew she had been in captivity for weeks, but she still appeared quite regal and rather put-out, as if she hadn’t been a prisoner for more than a day. She looked down (and down and _down_) upon him as if he were an insect.

“If you have come to question me, you will receive the same answers I gave the fools who tried before you,” she informed him very matter-of-factly.

Before Anduin could protest or the princess could say more, Blightcaller stalked out of the shadows and into the flickering torchlight, offering a bow. Only Anduin knew how little he probably meant it. “Not quite, Princess,” the Forsaken said.

Talanji narrowed her eyes at him. “You are not a human.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Blightcaller chuckled. “Not for some time.”

Finally, the crawling itch that seemed to work itself over Anduin’s body every time he dabbled in shadow magics subsided, and his head began to clear. He could think without an incessant buzzing in the back of his mind, like a room full of distant, hushed whispers. “We’re not here to interrogate you,” he assured her, wincing.

The shroud dropped around the remaining members of their team, revealing the extent of the strange mix of company standing together before the princess’ cell. It was Rokhan who spoke up then, bowing his head and holding his closed fist against his breast as a sign of respect. Indicating the others, he said, “We come to take ya home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reverence just can't catch a break.
> 
> Feel free to come by the [Lionfang discord](https://discord.gg/bJ2JQSx) and say hi! We're taking our stress out on fictional characters, and you can too.


	14. He Wore That on Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming up on the end! I admit, I am a little relieved. As much as I love this story, 100,000 words in one go is turning out to be a lot more work than I anticipated, and I'm really anxious to get back to the Across Enemy Lines series. As of right now, it looks like this fic is going to have one or two more chapters.

Saurfang sat on the throne in Grommash Hold, staring forlornly at nothing. Anduin’s pup lay curled at his feet, her small head lying limp across his boot as she slept. It had been three days since Anduin and the others departed Kalimdor, bound for the Eastern Kingdoms and Stormwind’s infamous Stockade. There had been no word from any of them since.

He rested his chin in his hand, fighting to keep his eyes open as he watched the fire burn low in a nearby brazier. Anduin’s pup had kept him up into the early hours of the morning, whining and scratching at the edges of the tied-down hide, begging to be let out. Saurfang had already been exhausted and at the limits of his patience, worried for Anduin, for his mission. Her incessant whimpering had come dangerously close to driving him mad. It was only when he finally gave in and released her that he realized what it was she really wanted. Once freed, she had loped down the hall to Anduin’s door, pressing herself to the seam and peering up at him with her sad blue eyes.

Saurfang understood her loneliness, and so he had taken pity on her and opened the door. Unfortunately, and perhaps rightly, his own longing would not be so easily quelled. There was no room he could go to that would make him feel better about letting Anduin go to Stormwind. No comfort he could take in a familiar shared space.

He had watched as the pup wriggled into the bedding and let out a soft, satisfied _whuff_, and realized that he was incredibly jealous. Of an animal. It may or may not have been the moment he finally lost his mind. Before he knew it he’d settled in behind her, stretched out across Anduin’s bed with the pup’s small furry body tucked into the crook of his arm. The mingled scents of his mate and the direwolf had been so comforting, so reassuring, that in no time at all he’d slipped into a deep sleep.

By some luck, no one had discovered him in Anduin’s room the next morning, and the prince himself would not know his bed had been host to anyone apart from his beloved direwolf. But Saurfang knew. He could not lie to himself, as he would undoubtedly lie to Anduin upon his return. If he returned.

Two days, Anduin had assured him. In two days’ time he would return, or else send word of their success. But two days had come and gone, and there had been no messages, no word of the prince’s fate. He suspected that all was not lost—Stormwind and its king remained blessedly silent, which could only be good news. But it was the uncertainty that plagued him most. He simply _didn’t know_.

A commotion outside the doors of the hold drew him from his thoughts. As he watched, a raven, its sleek black plumage ruffled in offense, swooped into the chamber and landed in the very center of the floor. A host of Kor’kron came rushing in after it, brandishing their weapons menacingly. Saurfang did not need to guess how such a bird had come to stand before him.

“Leave us,” he commanded, halting the advancing Kor’kron in their tracks. They stood frozen, a humorous spread of confusion and other strange expressions. At his feet the direwolf pup merely lifted her head, scenting the air for a threat. When she apparently found none, she fell onto her side and continued drooling across his boot. He chuckled. “Archmage,” he said, gesturing to the bird.

In a dazzling display of magic, Khadgar transformed before their very eyes, taking the shape of a man several times the size of the bird he had been mere seconds before. He smirked, evidently amused by his own mischief. “Warchief,” the archmage said, pressing a closed fist to his chest and offering a deep bow. “My apologies for arriving unannounced.”

“The Horde owes you a great deal, Archmage. You may consider yourself a welcome guest in Orgrimmar whenever you please.” He pointedly looked past Khadgar’s shoulder to where the Kor’kron still waited, despite his command to leave. They caught on quick enough; as a group they jumped to attention, scrambling to make for the exit as swiftly as they were able. Saurfang snorted. In the absence of a war to fight they were proving next to useless.

Khadgar watched them go. “Impressive.”

“I’m sure you have come to me today for more than a demonstration of my command over the soldiers of the Horde.”

“Indeed.” He seemed almost sheepish, which couldn’t mean anything good. It was disappointingly easy to guess what his next words might be. “I have been asked to deliver a message from King Varian Wrynn. And to extend an invitation,” he said, confirming Saurfang’s suspicions.

“Invitation,” Saurfang repeated, trying to ignore the hollow pit that yawned in his gut. He was not accustomed to feeling such fear. “Where?”

“Dalaran,” Khadgar said. “A neutral location, where you and the high king might discuss matters that are currently of interest to both the Horde and the Alliance. He is certain you will wish to hear what he has to say. His words, of course, not mine.”

Saurfang relaxed a bit. It seemed unlikely that Varian would have asked to meet if he had the upper hand. Far more likely he would have sailed his new fleet to Kalimdor to demand an audience, if only to rub Saurfang’s nose in it. “The king assumes a great deal,” he said, “What is the message?”

Khadgar cleared his throat. He looked about the chamber, as though he feared someone else might be watching. He seemed embarrassed. “Please remember, I am only the messenger.”

“Of course.”

“The message was, well… Forgive me, Warchief. It was, _‘I could smell the Horde stink on this the moment I set foot in the Stockade.’_”

Despite the intended insult, the words lifted Saurfang’s spirits considerably. The message Khadgar had brought him gave every indication that Varian truly had no idea how the Horde had managed to relieve them of the Zandalari princess’ company. That meant that he didn’t know Anduin had been involved, and therefore didn’t have him in Stormwind, tucked away somewhere under heavy guard.

Still, he was expected to take offense at the king’s lack of respect. “Varian has not learned manners since our last encounter, I see.”

“No,” Khadgar agreed, “but I must admit, his concerns are understandable, if not entirely reasonable; there was an escape made from the Stormwind Stockade last night. A rather high-profile prisoner, as I understand it. I happened to be in the city at the time, visiting with a colleague. I had also intended, per the promise made to young Anduin following that rather disastrous dinner, to return the prince to Orgrimmar. However, I arrived at the keep to discover that he had already made his way back to you on his own.”

Saurfang suppressed any sort of reaction, though he wanted very much to smile. Anduin certainly was determined. It was good to know that others occasionally found themselves falling prey to his tenacity. “A story you may wish to hear from Sylvanas Windrunner, if you are ever so inclined,” Saurfang said.

“Is that so? Well, I may do just that. For now, however, I have volunteered my time, my magic, and my city to facilitate a meeting between yourself and the king. I do this in the hopes that you might reassure him that the Horde would certainly never violate Stormwind’s borders as he is so convinced you must have. Not after achieving so much together in the name of peace.”

It was a statement of faith with a question buried at its core: _Did you do it?_

Pity. Saurfang was rather fond of Khadgar. Lying to the man never would have been his first choice under different circumstances. But sacrificing any chance at peace, at seeing Anduin again, was simply too steep a cost even for his honor.

“I gave no such order,” he lied, “nor would I ever condone a violation of our peace accord with the Alliance, despite Varian’s recent behavior.” Ancestors help him, he knew such dishonesty would come back to haunt him some day. He simply hoped it might be at a time when he could afford to pay whatever penance the ghosts of his weakness demanded.

Khadgar, proving himself too trusting for his own good, believed Saurfang without question. “Of course not,” he said, an undisguised look of weary relief on his face. “In fact, I said as much on your behalf before I departed Stormwind. Still, Varian is rather insistent that you meet to reassure him yourself.”

“I am hardly surprised to hear it.”

“I imagined you might not be. So, may I bring him your answer, Warchief?” Khadgar waited, so open in his hope that this pointless exercise might yet yield some better result than they were all likely expecting.

Saurfang was pleased that he could give him _something_, even if it wasn’t what he truly wished for. “You may do more than that, Archmage. I will accompany you to Dalaran tonight, if you wish.”

Khadgar’s face lit up. He smiled broadly, and offered Saurfang another bow. “I am pleased to hear it,” he said. “You have my word that your safety, and the safety of the Kor’kron who accompany you, will be my highest priority.”

“I will go alone,” Saurfang informed him, holding back a smirk of his own. He supposed Varian would insist on surrounding himself with his own soldiers. Certainly the Gilnean king would be there at his side as well, with the spymaster lurking in some nearby shadow. He explained, “I have no doubts regarding my safety while in Dalaran.” It was also too amusing to imagine Varian, a company of soldiers and loyal friends at his back, coming face to face with one unarmed orc.

“As you wish,” Khadgar said. “If you don’t mind, I will return to Stormwind to inform the king of your decision, and give him time to prepare.” He paused. “Ah, with your leave, might I simply return here to Grommash Hold via portal? It is rather unpleasant to maneuver past windriders and city guards outfitted with pikes when attempting to reach you.”

“You may.” Although, the spectacle it had caused was well worth it, in his opinion. Then again, it wasn’t his feathered hide at stake.

“Excellent.” Khadgar bowed again, half-saluting in the Horde style as he did so. “Until this evening, then.”

And with that, following the quick cast of a portal for his personal use, the archmage was gone.

Saurfang lifted the toe of his boot just enough to get the pup’s attention. “Rest up, little one,” he muttered to her. “It seems we’re going to Dalaran.”

With any luck, he thought, the pup might go wild and bite Varian’s ankles. It was unlikely, but he could hope.

  
Dalaran was much the same as he remembered from his last visit, when he and Varian had struck their initial agreement, what now seemed like so very long ago. Saurfang held no illusions that he would find the king in the same agreeable spirits this time. Though his request had somehow met with the approval of the archmage, it seemed unlikely that it was a second offer of peace Varian brought to the table.

Khadgar had brought both leaders to the floating city and ushered them into a room within the Violet Citadel that he called the Purple Parlor. Saurfang found the name rather amusing; let it never be said that the Kirin Tor did not appreciate consistency.

As expected, Varian had been accompanied by his closest and most belligerent allies. Notably absent was the Lady Jaina, and Saurfang could not help but think that her refusal to return to Dalaran must have been frustrating for the king. That pleased him. He had come with no more than Anduin’s small direwolf pup at his heels, and though the beast drew some strange looks, she was otherwise ignored.

They reached the parlor by way of a portal. The others remained behind, and Varian raised no objection, which was both surprising and suspicious. Nor did he complain when Saurfang stepped through carrying the pup.

In the center of the room sat a small table with two overstuffed, high-backed chairs on either side. Both were large enough to comfortably sit both men. Khadgar gestured for each of them to take a seat, and then stepped back.

“Well, I will leave you gentlemen to it,” he said. Despite his staff and scaled coat, he sounded more like a manservant than a mage. It did not escape Saurfang’s notice that he made deliberate eye contact with Varian as he said, “Do not forget that violence here, or anywhere in Dalaran, will not be tolerated. This is meant to be a peaceful meeting.”

Saurfang inclined his head respectfully. Varian grimaced, but nodded as well.

Finally, with the familiar sound of a portal slicing through the air and disappearing again, Khadgar was gone, and they were alone.

Varian wasted no time cutting right to the heart of the matter. “You stole the Zandalari princess,” he said.

“As the archmage retrieved me from Orgrimmar this morning, I think you know that would be impossible.”

“Don’t play the fool with me, Saurfang. You sent your people to Stormwind to help her escape—or else to take her for yourselves.” He crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. “I had the 7th Legion on her cell night and day. Seasoned soldiers, unlikely to fall victim to simple Horde tricks. They claimed they never saw anyone.” 

It was difficult not to smile. Every word that fell from Varian’s lips only confirmed that Anduin had managed to do exactly as he had claimed he would. The mission had been a success, and the Alliance—Varian, especially—was left grasping at empty air for answers. Saurfang hid his joy in a gentle ruffling of the pup’s fur. “It seems to me that you have no evidence at all to suggest our involvement, Your Majesty. Why would you assume it was the Horde?”

“Because I know it was you!” Varian shouted.

The pup jumped in Saurfang’s arms, and then turned a growl on Varian. Saurfang held her back; one courageous but foolhardy pup would be no match for Lo’Gosh, whatever Saurfang’s private hopes might be. “I take it not all of your allies agree,” he replied evenly. Greymane and Spymaster Shaw had been the only notable faces present amongst Varian’s retinue. The absence of any dwarves, elves, or even gnomes sent a much louder message than the high king likely realized.

Azeroth was at peace. For the first time in longer than many could remember, there were no battles to be fought, no war supplies to stockpile, no weapons to be forged. Tyrande had struck her deal with Anduin, and the prince had seen to it that the goblins of Azshara would make good on their end of the bargain. Mekkatorque had advocated for peace at the first opportunity, to Varian’s great and rather obvious displeasure. Even the dwarves of Ironforge, historically some of Stormwind’s most dependable allies, had come seeking the Horde’s friendship on their own. Saurfang had no fears that Moira Thaurissan or Muradin Bronzebeard would follow the high king into battle over nothing more than a gut feeling.

“My allies don’t know what I do,” Varian said. Some deeper fury gave his words a keen edge, and Saurfang knew it would be wise to heed the warning.

He chose his next words carefully. “And what might that be, Your Majesty?”

“That soldiers don’t simply knock themselves out, Saurfang.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. There was nothing Saurfang could say that might distract Varian or turn him away from what he knew had happened in that prison. What they both knew, whether or not one of them could prove it.

Suddenly, Varian demanded, “_Why_ are you cradling that pup as though it is your child?”

Saurfang was under no obligation to answer, and a part of him balked at the thought of sharing such things with a pompous fool like Varian. But he seized on the altogether more valuable opportunity to gain distance from the previous subject. “She is my responsibility,” he explained. “I would not leave her behind in Orgrimmar.”

“The warchief is a part-time nanny,” Varian murmured. Suddenly his eyes grew wide and he exclaimed, “It’s _Anduin’s_, isn’t it.”

Rather than respond, Saurfang merely pressed his lips into a flat line.

His silence seemed to be answer enough, unfortunately; Varian sat forward in his chair, his elbows perched on his knees. “Tell me, where is my son?” he asked.

“Orgrimmar.”

“I will give credit where it’s due, Saurfang, honorable men make for terrible liars.”

“He had no wish to see you,” Saurfang said. Which was actually true, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “Unsurprising, after you declared him a lost cause and abandoned him to the Horde.”

Varian scoffed. “I did no such thing. You were a father yourself once, you must know what having a headstrong child is like. You know what _my_ headstrong child is like. Anduin needed to be shaken a bit, reminded of what is at stake.”

“And you would disown your own son because he chose peace?”

Varian hesitated. It took a moment, but he shook himself out of whatever distraction had gripped him and said, “We’re getting off-topic, Saurfang. That is Anduin’s wolf pup. Where is he?”

Saurfang grimaced; damn his fondness for the boy, he could have fulfilled his vow to look after the pup without bringing her along to Dalaran. But the direwolf was a connection to his mate, and he had been hesitant to relinquish that, especially after his night spent in Anduin’s bed with her small body tucked against his. He did not know what use Varian would make of the information now that he had it, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

“Busy,” he answered.

“Of that I am certain,” Varian said, “but he isn’t busy in _Orgrimmar_. You’re looking after the beast for him. He never would have permitted you to come here and leave him behind, regardless of how he feels about me for the moment.”

Saurfang bristled at the casual conviction in Varian’s words. “I am warchief of the Horde,” he growled, “I do not require _permission_ to—”

“You are a fool if you think that meaningless bluster will convince me that Anduin hasn’t yet wound you around his little finger. I know my son. Where is he now, Saurfang?” He looked around the room, as though expecting Anduin to appear. “Where have you sent him?”

“He is on a mission to the Undercity,” Saurfang lied. It was Anduin’s invention, this scheme to convince the Alliance that he had indeed returned to the Eastern Kingdoms. Just not to Stormwind.

“Yes, I had heard reports that Reverence was spotted in Tirisfal. But not _Anduin_. I admit, sending the horse to the Eastern Kingdoms was a rather clever move. Was it your idea, or his?”

“As you said, you know your son.” Damn them _both_.

Varian was quiet for a moment, narrowing his eyes over his intertwined fingers. “Tell me you didn’t throw him to those savages.”

“You claim I am _wound around his little finger_, yet you believe I could stop the prince from going wherever he wishes, or send him where I please. I have no such power over him.” That much was true, at least. Since the very first day Anduin had arrived in Orgrimmar, there had been little to nothing Saurfang could do that would hold him back. He had his father’s headstrong personality—thankfully without the arrogance that accompanied it.

“Whatever happens to my son will be on your head,” Varian promised. He pointed a finger at Saurfang’s chest. “You play a dangerous game, using him as one of your pawns to further the Horde’s agenda.”

“I have done no such thing.”

“He is too eager, too naive. He doesn’t understand this world the way you and I do. What will you do if he is injured, or taken prisoner himself?” Varian demanded. “Do you really hate the Alliance, hate _me_ so much that you would risk his life for revenge?”

Saurfang snarled, and the pup wriggled uncomfortably in his lap. She could sense his agitation. “I would _never_ risk his life,” he insisted. The plan to rescue the princess hadn’t even been his idea, nor Anduin’s part in the mission. In fact, he had objected strenuously to both. “Not for the Horde. Not even for myself.”  
  
“And I am meant to simply take you at your word,” Varian said.

“You once told me that Anduin would not be content to simply stand in my shadow. Why is it you believe him so helpless now? Why even agree to this arrangement if you intended to fight so hard to undo it at every opportunity?” Finally angered by Varian’s obstinance, his easy dismissal of Anduin’s ability to choose for himself what he wished from his life, Saurfang pushed the pup from his lap and stood up.

“Careful, Warchief.”

“You have denied him the right to choose his own path from nearly the moment you arrived in Orgrimmar. Now you have the gall to call him _naive?_ What suffers more for Anduin’s affection for the Horde, Your Majesty: your love for your son, or your _pride?_ You claim to know him, and yet you think him so weak that he could be used to further the Horde’s ends. Perhaps the only wound truly inflicted by this marriage has been to your righteous certainty that you know anything about the sort of man Anduin truly is.”

He expected Varian’s rage. He expected the man to spit curses like venom, and threaten the Horde with his new allies and their magnificent fleet.

What he did not expect was for him to laugh.

It ripped away all the armor Saurfang had gathered around himself, one piece at a time, until he stood before Varian with his deepest shame laid bare. “You hapless old fool,” Varian chuckled, shaking his head and making no effort at all to hide his amusement. “You’re actually in love with him, aren’t you.”

“I—”

“Do you really think he feels the same way? That he would ever wish to bind himself to you fully?” he continued. “I can see that you would like nothing more than to keep him. For him to be _yours_.” The underlying disgust in his words stung, and Saurfang did not have the presence of mind to hide it.

“I know his desires. He has made them clear,” he said before he could think better of it.

Varian seized the opportunity with obvious glee. “Yes, I’m certain Anduin is very interested in you,” he agreed. “I’m certain he would be interested in anything new and different and _strange_ to him. But at most you are a novelty, Saurfang. An attraction at the Darkmoon Faire. For your own sake, do not delude yourself into thinking that anything more meaningful will come of this marriage. In fact, I suspect you may have already considered that his affections are only a passing curiosity.”

He had. And although he had dismissed the notion just as quickly, it nevertheless persisted, lingering in the back of his mind and cropping up at inopportune moments. Anduin’s actions the other night had done little to silence it. And yet, hopelessly infatuated as he was, some part of Saurfang knew he would give Anduin even that. He would willingly sacrifice his dignity, not because it would give him Anduin for a short time, but because it would make Anduin happy.

That was his duty as the prince’s mate, was it not?

He sat himself in the chair again, and the pup sat herself down between his feet.

“You understand,” Varian said knowingly. “And now you see why I insist Anduin is not capable of choosing for himself what it is he wants. He might make promises, or ask for things he barely understands, but that will change. And when it does, his honor will have bound him to a life he cannot sustain.”

That was… Would Anduin truly stay by his side only out of obligation?

Did Saurfang _want_ him to?

“The last time you and I met here, in Dalaran, I told you that I wished for there to be a lasting peace,” Varian continued. “You told me that Anduin would be the key to achieving that, and that you were not interested in him beyond an example, and his ability to bring others around to his way of thinking.” He sat back, still eyeing Saurfang over his steepled fingers. He had the air of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted. “It seems we have both failed to deliver on our promises.”

  
Saurfang returned to Orgrimmar feeling far less confident than he had that morning. Where his loneliness and worry had been a constant but mostly tolerable companion before, now it was overshadowed by the pain promised in Varian’s certainty that Anduin would only ever want an amusement. A _curiosity_. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, to remind himself that Varian had underestimated Anduin several times already, he could not shake the feeling that this time the man might be correct.

He climbed the steps in the hold without a destination in mind, and found himself in Anduin’s room before he knew it. The pup followed dutifully at his heels, and flopped down on the rug before the hearth as pups did, stretching out in front of the crackling fire. It was some minutes before Saurfang realized that there was a fire at all. He peered at it curiously, and then panic struck, and he shot up from the bed.

“Prince Anduin?” he called out. There was no answer from the adjacent wash room, and no sound of feet making their way down the hall from his own quarters. He waited, watching the pup. She seemed wholly unconcerned by whatever was happening at that particular moment.

When it seemed clear Anduin had not come back to Orgrimmar, Saurfang slumped down onto the bed again. He laced his fingers together and sat in silence, staring at the fire. Someone had set it knowing the room would see a guest that evening. They knew he had spent the night in Anduin’s bed.

“Spirits help me,” he sighed. How long before the whole of Orgrimmar learned he was hopelessly smitten with his mate? An altogether ridiculous notion to be so concerned with, he was _meant_ to feel that way about Anduin.

He was meant to do whatever his mate required of him. To make him happy.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts, and he jumped up once more. The pup, ever an indicator of at least most potential threats, only lifted her head. When she apparently deemed it of no real concern who was on the other side, she let it flop back down on the rug with a hollow _thunk_.

“You had best protect your master better than your warchief,” Saurfang muttered to her as he crossed to the door.

Standing on the other side was a city guard. A woman, with a braided length of familiar red hair. Saurfang considered that it might be time to learn her name, since she seemed destined to bear witness to some of his lowest and most humiliating moments.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Warchief.” She thumped her chest and held out a rolled up scroll. It was larger than he might have expected. Tauren, perhaps? “This arrived moments ago.”

He reached out to take the scroll, noting the unfamiliar seal—a gold, three-clawed foot. There was something strange about the appearance apart from its size. He grunted absently as he stared at the unbroken seal, which the guard correctly took for a dismissal. When the door was shut he took the message over to the rug, and sat himself beside the sleeping pup. She turned over and tucked herself against his knee as he unrolled the parchment.

_Warchief Saurfang,_ it began. The script was awkward, hesitant in places. He recognized it right away as Anduin’s version of Orcish.

_As you may have guessed, our new friend insisted that we take her home right away, rather than sailing for Kalimdor. You and I discussed this possibility, but I wished to reassure you that all is well. And to warn you that if you have not heard from my father already, you likely will soon. I apologize for that. Please take it as further sign of our success. And remember that whatever you were or will be called upon to say in the Horde’s defense, as the crown prince of Stormwind, it was my pleasure to bring Nathanos Blightcaller, Regent Lord Lor’themar Theron, and Shadowhunter Rokhan to my home. One cannot sneak into a city where one is already a guest._

Saurfang snorted in amusement at Anduin’s shameless insolence. He was too clever for his own good.

_I am pleased to tell you that we have already met with King Rastakhan, and he is very grateful for our efforts on behalf of the Zandalari, though he is clearly wary of our intentions. However, we have been welcomed into the city as guests. It is very beautiful, bright, and lively here. Blightcaller is miserable._

_The king has asked that I extend an invitation for you to join us here in Dazar’alor. You would be treated with all the hospitality expected of your status as warchief of the Horde. He wishes to discuss the possibility of an alliance, I think. Or he is just very good at abducting people. I don’t imagine you have anything to worry about, however; Princess Talanji has been very supportive of our bid to bring the Zandalari into the fold, as she believes that her people could only benefit from our strength. As you may have guessed, she is no great fan of my father, either. You have that in common!_

_I hope this message finds you well, and that you will consider accepting King Rastakhan’s invitation. I think I speak for us all when I say that we would be very pleased and honored to have our warchief’s company during this mission. I know I would._

And then, following a small blot of ink that suggested he had hesitated before continuing, the message read:

_Please bring my direwolf with you if you do come. I miss her very much._

_By the way, the seal on this scroll is the footprint of the devilsaur loa, Rezan. I thought you might be curious, and I confess I was too excited by the discovery not to share it with you as soon as possible. I have yet to meet him (nor do I assume I might), but if you would believe it, I have met three other loa. Including one that I am not actually certain is a Loa at all. It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, in Dazar’alor it is safer to leave trash where you find it if you come across any._

The message ended with the sort of formal flourish Saurfang expected, declaring the sender _Prince Anduin Llane Wrynn_. But it was the noticeable addition of —_of Stormwind and Orgrimmar_ at the end that warmed his heart and made him smile, leaving no question that he would accept Rastakhan’s invitation, and join Anduin in Zandalar.

  
In a strange parody of their first face-to-face meeting on the shores of Bladefist Bay, it was Saurfang who stood upon the deck as his flagship sailed into the enormous warport of Dazar’alor. As with before, the sight that greeted him was enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

Anduin stood between two of the enormous slips, where a stone wharf jutted out into the water and marked the final sprawling reach of the Zandalari capital. He was not dressed as Saurfang expected, in his favorite leather boots and comfortable, familiar clothes, but what appeared to be Zandalari garments. A solid collar of linked gold covered him from high on his neck to just below his collarbones, scrawled in strange geometric designs reminiscent of the decorative stonework that surrounded them. A set of similar cuffs adorned his wrists, matched by two bands high up on his arms. Similarly colored straps of woven leather wound around his ankles, and a rich red sarong sat low on his slender hips. The cloth itself was secured in place by an ornate gold belt. His hair, usually pulled back so that only a few stray locks hung free, was loose. It wreathed his smiling face and caught the afternoon light, and Saurfang briefly forgot to pretend as though he wasn’t hopelessly in love with his own mate.

Two Zandalari trolls stood a short distance back from Anduin. Saurfang assumed they were his escorts. They approached with the prince as the ship docked and the gangplank was lowered.

“Warchief Saurfang,” Anduin said. He offered a Horde-style salute and gestured to his companions. “I would like to introduce you to Wardruid Loti, high priestess of Gonk, and Hexlord Raal, high priest of Pa’ku. They are members of the Zanchuli Council.”

They were a good head taller than Saurfang, and so he was forced to look up to meet their eyes as he greeted each one in turn. It was an altogether strange experience. Even tauren did not seem quite so towering. Though perhaps that had more to do with the way they stood so hunched, where the Zandalari seemed determined to keep their chins raised as high as possible.

“On behalf of King Rastakhan, we welcome you to Zandalar, Warchief,” the woman, Loti, said. “De king is detained with important matters now, but in de morning you will be able to meet with him.”

Saurfang nodded. “I could use the rest,” he said, feeling the truth of it in his bones. “You have my thanks, for your hospitality and the care you have shown my mate and the others who accompanied him.”

“These heroes rescued our princess,” Raal said. “It is de least we could do.”

They waited together while Saurfang’s meager belongings were unloaded from the ship, as well as Anduin’s direwolf pup. She barreled into her master’s legs at full speed, nearly knocking the prince over and sending them both into the harbor. Only Loti’s timely intervention kept Anduin upright and dry. The Zandalari both seemed amused, at least. It was a good sign that they were so at ease with the prince, considering who had captured their princess.

Prior to departing Kalimdor, Saurfang had spent the better part of several hours debating the merits of sailing, rather than taking an airship. In the end he decided that the latter would send the wrong sort of message. The Zandalari knew of the Horde’s capabilities and resources, they had faced them in Pandaria. There was no need for a show of strength. And, if he was being perfectly honest, a part of Saurfang feared that flexing any sort of muscle with Rastakhan might endanger Anduin.

Together, along with Anduin’s pup, they were escorted into the city and up the winding pyramid that seemed to serve as the foundation of Daza’alor. Saurfang was awed by the sheer size of it, and by the grandeur of the city which had been built upon its face. He was no less impressed with the interior, as Anduin and the two Zandalari led him to where he would be staying, and he glimpsed the maze of rooms and corridors within. The scope of it was incredible. As they ascended the structure the muggy jungle air gave way to a crisp breeze off the water, and the honeycomb of the great pyramid’s interior channeled it throughout the rooms, banishing the oppressive heat.

Loti and Raal bid them farewell at the door to the guest chambers, and Saurfang watched them go, feeling somewhat confused and definitely overwhelmed. His stomach growled, and he grimaced as he placed his hand over his middle.

“In here,” Anduin said, beckoning him into the room. It was immediately made clear that they were meant to share their sleeping quarters, as they had in Ironforge. Saurfang sighed at the small, round bed that sat prominently in the center of the room. The blankets and pillows were strewn about, as though Anduin had been unable to choose a direction to face in his sleep. Nearby, his clothing—what he had been wearing the day he departed for the mission to Stormwind—lay draped across a chair. He seemed to have made himself at home during his short stay.

“They had intended to invite us both to a feast in our honor,” Anduin informed him. He was halfheartedly straightening out the blankets on the bed. “It was Princess Talanji’s idea. I thought you would prefer to forego any formal occasions until you were more settled, however.”

Saurfang’s gratitude must have shown, because Anduin beamed up at him as though he had actually received the praise he deserved for his quick thinking. “I hope the king and his daughter were not offended by your change of plans,” Saurfang said. He needed to find something else to occupy his attention so that he didn’t continue to stare at Anduin. Spirits, he was nearly naked.

“Not at all. I don’t think the king wanted to do anything so grand for your arrival, actually. The Zandalari seem rather…”

“Unconventional.”

“I was going to say casual, but yes. That too. Apart from the guards surrounding his throne, King Rastakhan is perhaps more accessible than even you. Certainly more accessible than my father.” Anduin faltered, and from the corner of his eye Saurfang saw a flash of regret cross his features. “Have you heard from him?” he asked far too casually.

Saurfang quickly weighed the potential consequences of telling Anduin that he had not only spoken with Varian, but met with him face to face in Dalaran. “I have,” he said, deciding to err on the side of caution. He would tell the truth if Anduin asked, but he could see no good reason to volunteer the information, and potentially upset the prince further. Anduin had achieved a great deal for the Horde, with potentially more to come. He deserved to bask in that for as long as circumstances allowed.

“I’m sure he must still be furious with me.”

That was something of an understatement. Though, Saurfang didn’t personally care what Varian felt, or why. Only the damage he had done to Anduin mattered, and in Saurfang’s opinion it had been unforgivable. “You needn’t worry yourself with your father’s temper, Highness,” he said. “Time will soften the blows struck between you.”

“Perhaps.” Anduin heaved himself back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “Well, we’re here, in any case, and we have a job to do. I’ve made progress with some of the Zanchuli Council members.”

“The two who accompanied you to meet me.”

Anduin nodded. “They are the most supportive of our efforts to build a relationship between the Horde and the Zandalari Empire. Others on the council are still uncertain. A few have spoken out against any alliance whatsoever, regardless of the fact that we rescued their princess.”

“And Rastakhan?”

“Quiet. He listens to his advisors, and it seems he is content to allow the council to hammer out most issues until a deciding voice becomes necessary. He is friendly, however. I believe he might yet be a friend to us, even if he ultimately refuses our offer. Princess Talanji, on the other hand, is…” Anduin shook his head and smiled. “Fascinating. We spent most of the journey here speaking of all the ways the Horde and the Zandalari might benefit one another, even beyond shared martial strength.” He held up a hand and began ticking off points on his fingertips. “Food, textiles, technology—am I boring you?”

Saurfang blinked. He had been so caught up in Anduin’s speech that he hadn’t noticed his focus wandering. It seemed his gaze had fallen upon Anduin’s bare chest. Again. He stammered out an apology and tried to think of an acceptable excuse for his behavior. He seemed to be doing that a great deal lately.

“Would you like dinner?” Anduin asked.

On cue, Saurfang’s stomach growled again.

“I will take that as a yes.” Anduin hopped down from the bed and took a few steps toward the door. “We could have the servants bring us something here, but I think you would like to see some of the city, correct?”

Saurfang nodded. It was not only practical, as the Zandalari would undoubtedly wish to see their great civilization being appreciated by the Horde’s warchief, but it was preferable. Being trapped in another small room with Anduin—with Anduin wearing next to nothing—was possibly the worst torment he could imagine at the moment.

The pup, who had taken up a sleepy vigil beside the door, seemed uninterested in exploring the city with them. She rolled onto her back and crooked her paws in the air, and then fell back into a contented slumber. Anduin only shrugged. It seemed Saurfang had been correct, and that Anduin had every intention of spoiling the little beast.

As they made their way back out of the maze of corridors, Saurfang noted that Anduin seemed to have learned the layout of the pyramid already. He could only be grateful for the prince’s keen attention to detail, even if he did feel a bit of a fool for not bothering to remember the way in and out himself.

“There are vendors throughout the lowest tier, and down by the port,” Anduin informed him as they walked. “Have you ever had tortollan?”

“The food, or the creatures?”

Anduin laughed, and the sound was more soothing to Saurfang than the wind on his face. “The food,” he said. “Although, when you think about it, I suppose it really is the same question either way, isn’t it?”

  
The last of the light was fading behind the distant treetops, sinking below the canopy and casting the sky in a vivid wash of orange fire. Torches had been lit along the paths that wound around the pyramid, and in their light Anduin’s golden attire seemed to glow. Something long-starved within Saurfang wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, pull him close, and be done with all the pretense and uncertainty.

And yet the echo of Varian’s warning persisted.

No one seemed to mind their presence as they strolled through the city, and Saurfang could only wonder how the Zandalari were already so acclimated to their unexpected guests. He supposed that Bligthcaller and Anduin by themselves must have been enough of a novelty—for very different reasons. One orc would hardly bear a second glance by comparison. At the same time, their seemingly easy acceptance of the human prince in their midst would bode well for any hope of future peace with the Alliance. If they could accept that there was one good human, perhaps they could accept that there might be more.

They eventually found their way back to the port, where the fare on offer seemed far more to Saurfang’s tastes. He assumed that had been Anduin’s intention; he was considerate in a way that never quite drew attention to his efforts, but Saurfang was beginning to take note. “Here,” he said, taking Saurfang by the hand and pulling him into a small, open-sided alcove. “I’m certain you’ll like this. I had some just yesterday.”

“This” turned out to be a dish of savory, roasted meat over vegetables and rice. The food was fragrant and hot on his tongue, and he had finished one bowl and requested a second before Anduin was halfway through with his first. They received a knowing look and a wink from the Zandalari woman who served them, which Anduin found very amusing. Saurfang busied himself with his food and tried not to think about how foolish he felt.

After their meal they continued the informal tour, with Anduin happily explaining every detail and bit of history he had learned about the Zandalari capital and their sprawling empire, no matter how strange or trivial. Saurfang found it charming, though he caught Anduin eyeing him strangely on more than one occasion. Perhaps he was worried that Saurfang wasn’t as pleased by his company as he seemed. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Their journey took them on a meandering path down to the water and back up again, and then around the lower tier to a quieter section of the city. The sun was long gone, cloaking the jungle around them in shadows, but Dazar’alor remained lit up in defiance of the darkness. Everywhere they went they followed a line of lit torches, guiding them one small pool of light at a time. Elsewhere the night creatures of Zandalar provided a chorus to serve as backdrop to their walk, and small flashes of bright blue, green, and gold blinked among the leaves and vines. It was all very beautiful. Still, Saurfang found himself returning again and again to the sight of Anduin beside him. Everything else paled in comparison.

They reached a river that flowed down and around the western side of the city, fed from a towering waterfall that Saurfang could hear well before he spotted it in the darkness. A long, arching bridge crossed the water, and would take them to another path that led back up into the higher tiers. It seemed their walk—pleasant and informative and far more peaceful that Saurfang had anticipated—was coming to an end. Beside him Anduin had fallen silent, no doubt sensing Saurfang’s disappointment, and incorrectly assuming it had more to do with him than the looming end of their evening.

Suddenly Anduin stopped walking. He stood at the halfway point on the bridge, caught between one torch and the next so that the flames flickered around him like light dancing on the water’s surface. The shadows made every sharp angle and subtle curve stand out in relief against the darkness. It was as though someone had crafted him with the sole intent to tempt Saurfang. Or else drive him mad.

“I have to tell you something,” he said quietly. “It can’t wait any longer.”

Saurfang wasn’t certain he could take another of Anduin’s confessions. Not so soon, and not with Varian’s laughter still echoing in his mind. Ironforge had been bad enough; he did not think the Zandalari would take kindly to the warchief of the Horde wandering aimlessly though Dazar’alor in the middle of the night.

He took a deep breath and said, “It’s about the night I returned to Orgrimmar…”

“Prince Anduin, you don’t have to—”

“Please, let me finish.” Anduin held up a hand to silence him. With the other he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t honest with you.”

A million possibilities careened through Saurfang’s mind in the seconds that followed. Fears that Anduin would withdraw any affection whatsoever, or that he would ask to dissolve their bond entirely all crowded his thoughts until there was barely any room left to hear what Anduin was actually saying.

Still, the prince went on. “When you found me on the wall that morning, I told you that I couldn’t remember most of what I’d done while I was drinking. That wasn’t true.” He looked up, and his blue eyes seemed so sad, so weary. “I remember what I did, and what… I offered you. What I _asked_ of you. And I remember you pushing me away.”

Saurfang couldn’t reconcile what he was hearing with what he remembered of Anduin’s actions that morning. The implications and the questions they raised were staggering. But most confusing of all was why he would have lied in the first place.

“It has been suggested—rather candidly, in fact—that I may not remember everything from that evening correctly. But I know what _I_ did. And if you don’t want it as well, if you aren’t interested, I will understand. I will respect your wishes, and never, _ever_ bring it up again.”

“Prince Anduin.”

“But I meant every word of it,” Anduin declared in one great rush. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, as though every ounce of will he possessed had been channeled into forcing himself to keep speaking, no matter what. “Everything,” he continued. “I want… all of it, Warchief. I want you. I’m sorry that I didn’t have the courage to tell you before.”

Whatever Saurfang had intended to say was wiped clean, along with all those fears and doubts that had been filling his head all evening. Nothing stood between them anymore; no convenient excuse, no pretense, no reason to deny himself exactly what it was he desired. Anduin was standing before him, asking him to give what he had ached for all along.

He crossed the distance between them in two strides, walking Anduin back until he was pressed against the stone rail of the bridge. Slowly, very, _very_ slowly, Saurfang reached out to brush the backs of his knuckles across Anduin’s cheek. Simply touching him brought so much relief that he felt his shoulders sag as the tension bled from his body. Anduin leaned into his touch, a small, tentative smile on his face. “I wish for _nothing_ else,” Saurfang breathed, the words so low and so careful that they were nearly a growl. “That night, when you confessed your own desire, I told you that I had wanted you for some time.”

“I’m so sorry, I only remembered being pushed away.”

“I should have told you sooner.” He should have confessed the first night they were alone in Orgrimmar. He should have invited Anduin into his quarters, to share his space as mates were meant to. “I should have done many things differently.”

“When you told me no—”

“You had been drinking. I could not trust that you truly wanted what it was you were asking for.” He couldn’t have lived with himself if he had been wrong. He only hoped Anduin would understand that.

The gentle kiss Anduin pressed to the inside of his weathered palm seemed to indicate that all was forgiven. He held Saurfang’s wrist with both of his small hands. “Could you lean down, close to me?” he asked.

Saurfang hesitated, but he bent down just a bit.

“Closer,” Anduin said.

Bending any further required placing a hand on the railing behind Anduin, and he did, just as Anduin reached up and cupped his face, drawing him in for a kiss. It was… incredible. Saurfang had not spent much of his life kissing, and certainly never a human. Never anyone like Anduin: there _was_ no one like Anduin. He was soft—soft lips, a soft tongue as it traced the seam of his mouth, soft, warm skin. His fingers stroked Saurfang’s jaw, his throat, the caress gentle and soothing. He sighed happily as Saurfang relaxed into his touch.

The sound of someone clearing their throat brought it all to an abrupt and stumbling halt. Saurfang ripped himself away and stepped back out of Anduin’s reach. He turned to find Lor’themar standing at the far end of the bridge.

“My apologies, Warchief. I did not mean to interrupt,” he said. There was a definite note of amusement in his words, suggesting he did not feel nearly as remorseful as he claimed. “I had hoped to speak with you before your meeting with Rastakhan tomorrow morning.”

Saurfang felt his heart and his hopes sink. He could not dismiss Lor’themar for his own private concerns, no matter how desperately he wished to. “Of course,” he sighed.

It suddenly seemed unthinkable that he could look at Anduin without also facing the weight of his humiliation. He had been caught behaving like a lovesick youth, and it left him with no idea how to salvage what had just been ripped away from them. But then he felt the hands still clasped around his wrist squeeze slightly, and he dragged his gaze back to the blue eyes that he feared would be filled with disappointment.

Instead, and to his immense relief, he found Anduin watching him with a coy smile of his own. “It’s fine,” he said. He made no effort to keep his voice low for Lor’themar’s benefit. “You can join me in our room when you’re through here. I’ll be waiting.”

There was no mistaking his meaning. The promise in those words left Saurfang speechless. In the absence of anything more to say, Anduin slipped away from the railing and sauntered past Lor’themar, offering no more than a casual, “Regent Lord,” on his way past.

“Your Highness,” Lor’themar returned with a respectful nod.

Saurfang was sure there had been more after that. He could almost recall the things Lor’themar said, which he was vaguely aware might be important. But his eyes and his attention remained fixed on the sight of Anduin as he made his way down the torchlit path and up the pyramid, destined for their shared room, and that small bed, and a night Saurfang was certain he would remember for a very, very long time to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're hosting a Lionfang week in the [LF discord!](https://discord.gg/bJ2JQSx) You can check out the info [here.](https://cheeziswin.tumblr.com/post/618037896935522304/the-lionfang-discord-is-putting-together-a-prompt) Feel free to come by and hang out, or ask any questions about the event that you might have.


	15. Almost, but Not Quite

It seemed strange to have to remind himself to breathe.

Anduin sat upon the bed in the room he now shared with Saurfang, wearing nothing but the sarong that had been gifted to him by his hosts. He was quite fond of it, actually. His own clothes had been filthy, what with the journey to the Eastern Kingdoms, marching through a sewage pipe, climbing up through that same sewage pipe into a prison, and then trying to sneak his way through the city to the princess’ captured ship. Everything had gone according to plan, although he supposed he ought to have planned to need more clothes. As it was, his own needs had been the furthest thing from his mind.

On a signal from Anduin, the _Banshee’s Wail—_along with poor Reverence, who had really been through it recently—sailed north at full mast to distract any patrols. The party, which by that point also consisted of Princess Talanji, then set sail for Zandalar.

He had been surprised by the lack of resistance to their escape, but the first alarms had not been raised from within the Stockade until the five of them were already at the docks. On the one hand, that was quite fortunate, as he had no interest in personally testing his father’s patience following their last encounter. It was just as likely he would have ended up in a cell beside the princess, with his own small host of guards surrounding him. But on the other hand, the guilt of betraying his own people sat heavy on his heart. That option had never been his first choice. He had watched the lights of Stormwind until they sank below the horizon, feeling ashamed, and hoping that, whatever the results of his treachery were, he could at least take comfort in having preserved some sort of peace.

Yet all of that, regardless of its significance, and regardless of the emotional toll it had taken on him personally, seemed to pale in the face of what now lay before him.

He had told Saurfang of his feelings. Not while he was drunk, and intent on making a fool of himself; not in some round-about fashion, where his intentions could yet be mistaken. He had stood before the warchief and confessed his desire, and Saurfang had _kissed him_ for it.

Well, alright, Anduin had kissed him first, but Saurfang had kissed _back_. And it was everything and more that Anduin could have hoped for. That same gentleness that had first drawn him to Saurfang, a glimpse of the man beneath all the snarling and snorting and stubborn orcish pride. And now it was _his_.

They had a great deal more to discuss, of course. What had happened on that bridge was far more complicated than a simple shared confession between lovers. But that could wait. In fact, Anduin had a feeling, based on the fire he had seen in Saurfang’s eyes, that it would _have_ to wait.

The thought of being the subject of that passion thrilled him. It sent chills down his spine, and raised the hairs on his arms and neck. He wanted so much from Saurfang, and yet he was convinced he would get more than he even knew to ask for. After all, Sylvanas’ unsolicited lesson had been thorough, but hardly all-encompassing. He was certain the warchief would have desires of his own. Anduin couldn’t wait to discover what they were.

In fact… 

He glanced at the door to make sure it was closed, and then at the sleeping direwolf on the floor beside it. Nervously licking his lips, Anduin carefully pulled back the cloth that lay draped across his thighs.

Sylvanas had instructed him to greet Saurfang while clothed in nothing but his bare skin. Anduin had thought that perhaps the warchief might like to undress him. But seeing as he had gone out of his way to wear as little as possible already, well… It seemed silly to quibble over one small slip of red silk.

With a wince to cover his embarrassment, Anduin held his breath and ripped the cloth away. He now sat naked upon the bed. The change in dress had done little to alleviate his pounding heartbeat, or the heat that seemed to have stolen over him, but he felt less burdened. At least, he thought he did. It was difficult to say, given that his overwhelming emotion at that moment seemed to be terror. What if Saurfang didn’t like him? Would he find Anduin too skinny? Too pale? Orcs were rarely so short and scrawny; was it even his body that Saurfang found appealing? Perhaps it would be best to dress himself again. Perhaps Saurfang wouldn’t even _want_ to see him nude.

He leaned back on his hands and looked down the length of his body, taking in the lean expanse of fair skin, hair, and faint scars that comprised _him_. His body had never been a source of shame, despite his slender hips and slight frame, or the obvious lack of anything that might be considered true muscle. He did have some of those, and he was quite proud of them—they hadn’t been easy to gain after recovering from what had nearly been life-ending injuries spanning the length of his entire body. But they were subtle and smooth, not so obvious like his father’s. He would never be the sort of man who could swing a greatsword with ease (or at all), or wrestle a beast to the ground with his bare hands. And that was just fine. Anduin had never much cared for the sort of physical prowess his father had so obviously wished to see from his son. At least, not for himself. In certain others, perhaps… 

Unfortunately, thinking of his father was not helping matters at that particular moment. Anduin sighed and allowed himself to fall onto his back. He set one foot flat upon the bed, reaching up to run his hands through his hair while he attempted to convince himself that this wasn’t all a terrible mistake. That Saurfang would be happy with him.

Of course, that was the moment Saurfang chose to return to the room.

Anduin bolted upright, breathing hard, an excuse poised on the tip of his tongue. “Warchief, I—”

“_Spirits_,” Saurfang breathed.

Before Anduin could say anything more, Saurfang looked down at the direwolf pup. She was sitting between them, looking back and forth as though she expected they might play together. He quickly bent down and picked her up, depositing her on the other side of the door with a stern, “Stay,” and shut it behind him.

“Warchief, I sincerely hope I haven’t offended you,” Anduin began.

Saurfang cut off the rest of what he’d intended to say with a bewildered look. “Why would you have offended me?”

That… was a very good question. “I don’t know,” Anduin confessed. “Reflex, I suppose. I’ve become so accustomed to overthinking every aspect of thi—_oh_, _Light_.”

While Anduin spoke, Saurfang had begun divesting himself of his own clothing. He unbuckled the leather harness that held his armor to his broad frame during battle, and pulled the tabard from his chest. Beneath it he wore only a sleeveless leather top, tight and fitted to every muscle, from his massive shoulders down to his surprisingly trim waist. And then that too came off, and once again Anduin was forced to remind himself to breathe.

“Is this not what you wanted?” Saurfang asked. His shoulders were heaving as he lowered his arms. He looked as though he had all but climbed the sheer face of the pyramid to reach their chambers as quickly as possible. Anduin truly wanted to believe he had that power. That he could make a man like Varok Saurfang lust for him.

He shook his head gently. “This is _exactly_ what I wanted,” he said. “It’s just…”

Saurfang discarded the leather along with his bracers. He stepped out of his boots while he unbuckled his wide belt, and those joined the rest of his things on the floor. All that remained were his pants. It was clear that he was eager for the next step in the encounter. Eager, and straining the leather ties that held his pants closed. Anduin made a rough sound in his throat and reached down to wrap his fingers around his own length.

Fingers poised to pull at the lacing, Saurfang stopped and looked up at him. “You have never had an orc,” he said. Not a question, but a statement. He smirked. “You won’t forget it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Anduin said. His eyes were fixed on the slow slide of every lace as Saurfang teased the leather open. The head of his cock peeked over the loosened waist of his pants. Mechanically, entirely distracted by the sight before him, Anduin added, “It’s just that I’ve never done this.”

Saurfang stopped. “You have never been with an _orc_,” he repeated. This time there was a note of uncertainty, as though he sought confirmation.

Anduin shrugged lightly. “I’ve never been with anyone, Warchief.”

That had clearly been the wrong thing to say.

Saurfang straightened, and his hands fell away from his pants. “You’re…”

There was no point in lying. Not anymore, at least. “I am still a virgin, yes,” Anduin said. “Is that a problem?”

The heaving of his chest subsided somewhat, but that fire remained in Saurfang’s eyes. If prompted to guess, Anduin might have said he was aroused by it, rather than disappointed. It seemed he simply didn’t know how to proceed.

Well, that was fine. Anduin knew exactly what should come next.

“I would like for you to be my first,” he said quietly.

Saurfang growled, taking a stumbling step toward the bed. He loomed over Anduin, still straining against the front of his pants, pushing the leather laces to their absolute limit. Heat radiated from his skin.

Anduin swallowed. He had no intention of stopping now, though a small, sensible voice in the back of his mind reminded him that this was no coy game; he had never done _any_ of this before. Every step he took with Saurfang placed him on unfamiliar ground.

He leaned back on his hands and spread his thighs. “Would you like that, Warchief?” he asked. His arms trembled. “No other man has touched me. Been inside me.”

He could see Saurfang swallow hard. “You offer temptation, Your Highness,” the orc rumbled.

“I am only reminding my warchief of what is already his to take.”

Saurfang knelt on the bed, a veritable mountain overshadowing Anduin. He reached down and ripped aside the last of the ties, and Anduin groaned at the sight before him. Saurfang’s cock was much, _much_ bigger than he had anticipated. It was long and thick, wrapped in veins that stood out against his skin, and as Anduin watched, a dribble of clear fluid spilled from the tip and onto the bed between his thighs. Saurfang leaned down until he was on his hands and knees over Anduin, bracketing him with his massive body and forcing him onto his back. “This is more than you could handle,” he said, and that time there was a definite note of regret in his voice.

“No, _please_,” Anduin whined. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Saurfang’s broad neck, pulling him in for another kiss. More passionate than the first, more desperate. He felt Saurfang’s sharp teeth graze his lips. “Don’t deny me again.”

“I never wish to deny you anything,” Saurfang said. “But I… I cannot. I would hurt you.”

“You won’t, I swear it.”

Without warning, Saurfang reached for Anduin’s hips and flipped him over onto his stomach. Anduin found himself pulled up onto his hands and knees, with Saurfang kneeling behind him. The position made his own cock ache terribly. He wanted to be touched, but Saurfang only held him still, two massive hands on either side of his hips.

“This—” he said, and Anduin gasped at the sudden weight of Saurfang’s iron length along his backside, “—would not hurt you?”

Anduin could feel it, from the press of Saurfang’s heavy sac against his cleft, to the shaft that lay along his spine, and the slick, wet heat pooling just below the middle of his back. He was enormous. And _wide_.

“I… I could try…” It was a struggle not to push back against him, to rock his body so that it dragged Saurfang’s cock along his skin. Light, he wanted it to touch every inch of him, inside and out.

Saurfang bit back on a grunt. “You could. You would be hurt.”

For some reason, the prospect of being injured that way was not actually discouraging. Anduin whined a little, finally giving in to the urge to move. “Please,” he whispered, rocking gently.

“There will come a time when you can take me,” Saurfang said. His voice was strained, and Anduin could feel his fingers trembling where they still held his hips. “But not yet.”

Anduin turned enough to look over his shoulder. “You want this as much as I do,” he breathed, “I know it.” He wiggled his hips for effect, pushing back as much as he was able.

Saurfang hesitated. “I want…”

“Then _take it_.”

It was clear that Saurfang’s control hung by no more than a thread. He growled low in his throat. “I have thought of little else since the day I first laid eyes on you,” he groaned. “It has been torture. Every single day since your arrival in Kalimdor. The sight of you in the hold, your scent all around me. So many times I have thought… I have imagined…”

“I saw you,” Anduin rasped. His voice had grown hoarse from desire. “In your quarters. You had just bathed.”

Saurfang pushed against him, sliding his cock through the slick precome on Anduin’s back. “What did you see?”

“Not enough.” Wet skin, a broad expanse of muscled back, thighs that looked like they could crush stone. Thighs he wanted to feel as they slammed into him from behind. “I touched myself that night. Thinking of you.”

The sound Saurfang made was too quiet to be a proper roar. He flipped Anduin over again, pushing him down onto his back. “You do not know what it is you ask for, Highness,” he growled in warning.

Emboldened by the heat of Saurfang’s gaze, Anduin reached down and wrapped his fingers around Saurfang’s thick length. It was hot to the touch, practically throbbing in his grip. He slid a thumb through the fluid at the tip. “I want to know.”

Saurfang bucked into his touch. He clenched his teeth and panted through his nose, grunting with every thrust. It seemed as though he was close to breaking.

Anduin pushed a little harder.

“We both want this,” he whispered.

Saurfang hummed. It was a desperate, pleading sound. Not the sort of sound Anduin had ever expected to hear from a man like him.

“I have the Light. I can make it easier.” He was almost certain, anyway. “You can have me.”

“Hn.”

“Mate with me, Warchief. I want to know how it feels to have you inside me.”

With a groan, Saurfang fell back onto his hands over Anduin. He leaned down to brush his sharp fangs across Anduin’s collar. “You truly want this now?” he panted.

“Please,” Anduin breathed, his eyes sliding closed, fingers ghosting over the muscles of Saurfang’s arms. “It’s all I’ve wanted for so long. All I’ve thought about and imagined. What I’ve _dreamt_ of. I want you to show me what it’s like. Sate my curiosity for me, Warchief, I’m ready.”

Saurfang abruptly reared back, sitting up on his heels. It took a moment for Anduin to realize that he was not simply removing his pants. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

He never did get an answer. There was a knock at the door, followed by the sound of impatient scratching. Anduin gave Saurfang a curious look, and hastily set about dressing himself while the warchief… 

Well. While he wrestled himself back into his pants. There really was no better way to say it.

When they were presentable again, and Anduin had set a pillow across his lap, Saurfang opened the door.

It was Raal on the other side. He offered a respectful nod and said, “Warchief, Your Highness. King Rastakhan has concluded his business early this evening. I have been asked to escort you to him at once.”

Anduin and Saurfang exchanged looks. “Actually, we were a bit busy,” Anduin began.

At the very same moment, Saurfang said, “Of course, High Priest.”

There was no way for Anduin to hide his disappointment. Or his erection. He gave Saurfang a pleading look on behalf of both, and the warchief seemed to understand his meaning. “If you would give us a moment,” he said to Raal.

“Certainly.”

Raal stepped outside, and Anduin fell back on the bed. “I don’t suppose we could just do this quickly.” He lifted his head to look at Saurfang, only to find he had his eyes on the floor. “Or at all?” he asked, sitting up.

“We should answer the king’s summons right away,” Saurfang said. He seemed different, somehow. Almost as though he had lost something.

Anduin swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat as he considered what had gone wrong. Was the warchief ashamed of his desire? He needn’t have been; Anduin would have been happy to do almost anything else. Simply touching Saurfang would have been enough for him. Feeling the heat of his skin, the weight of him.

He shivered. Light help him, he was meant to be _calming_ himself.

  
They followed Raal around the face of the winding pyramid, up to the Great Seal, where Rastakhan awaited them. Anduin hadn’t even set foot upon the steps before he was stopped by one of the guards.

“He is my mate,” Saurfang growled at the Zandalari.

“De king sent for none but the Horde warchief,” the guard returned. He did not seem intimidated by the snarling orc before him. “The human will wait here.”

Anduin couldn’t imagine why Rastakhan had prohibited his presence at the meeting; he had been the first of the Horde delegation to meet with the king upon their arrival. The first to speak of friendship. Why keep him at arm’s length now? He looked to Saurfang, who seemed torn between offense and acceptance, poised to act if need be.

Anduin shook his head. It would do them no good to insult and alienate Rastakhan now. “I will wait here,” he said.

He watched Saurfang ascend the last steps and disappear around the corner. The guards remained as they were, as still as statues. Raal had gone with Saurfang, leaving Anduin by himself.

He wasn’t alone for very long.

“Locked out, are we?” Blightcaller’s familiar voice called from the next level down. Anduin turned to find the Forsaken standing at the bottom of the steps. “I’m surprised to find you here,” he said, “and not recovering in your chambers.” A sneer twisted his ashen face.

Anduin didn’t much feel like answering the obvious taunt, and so he only turned away. That side of the pyramid faced the distant jungle, and though he could not see much beyond the endless dark, he knew that it was teeming with life. He strained to see anything moving in the shadows.

“Pouting is so unlike you, Your Highness.” Blightcaller said it in a way that suggested he did not remotely believe it.

Anduin sighed. “There is nothing to recover _from_,” he muttered. He was pouting, he knew he was. It was difficult not to feel a bit sullen. Between their aborted attempt at making love and his unexplained exclusion from the meeting, his evening had not gone at all how he’d imagined.

He could see Blightcaller’s surprise from the corner of his eye. “Oh?” the archer asked. “Is that so… Well, it seem the Regent Lord delivered faulty intelligence. Hardly surprising.”

“You and Lor’themar seem to be getting along,” Anduin said bitterly.

“Unclench your little fangs, boy. A good morsel of gossip knows neither friend nor foe. The elf was wrong, in any case, was he not?”

“That depends on what he told you.”

“Let’s just say that I expected you might require the aid of a skilled healer come morning,” Blightcaller said.

“That is… It has occurred to you that _I_ am a healer, hasn’t it?”

“My, we’re in quite a mood tonight.” Blightcaller joined him looking out across the vast darkness. It reminded Anduin of their journey to Stormwind aboard the _Banshee’s Wail_. He had felt conflicted that time, too, only for an entirely different reason. The more things changed, it seemed. “Would you like to talk about it?” Blightcaller asked. The offer almost sounded sincere.

Anduin glanced at him from the corner of his eye. There was no wry smile on his face, no barely-contained chuckle threatening to spill over into mocking laughter. He shook his head. “It’s nothing.” After a breath, he said, “It’s me. It has to be.”

Blightcaller’s only response was a curious frown.

“It was all going so well. I thought—I thought it would happen. Saurfang wanted it, _I_ wanted it. And then he simply stopped.”

“Stopped.”

Anduin shrugged. It was a terribly uncouth gesture, but he had come to accept that many of the manners that had been drilled into him from an early age were unnecessary in the Horde. No one cared if he shrugged. No one would clutch at their throat in shock if he ate with his fingers. No one much cared if he wore a shirt, either. He wasn’t even wearing one now.

“You do seem to have truly abysmal luck when it comes to the warchief,” Blightcaller said.

“Thank you,” Anduin sighed. “If you don’t mind, I think I would prefer to be alone right now.”

Blightcaller ignored him. “How much did you even manage to do with that lumbering beast? I doubt you would be so unpleasant if you hadn’t at least had a taste before he put a stop to it.”

“Blightcaller, really!” Anduin exclaimed. He lowered his voice and hissed, “That is none of your business!”

“On the contrary, Highness. I do believe the agreement struck between you and my lady _makes it_ my business. Or have you forgotten the sum with which you paid for her assistance?”

Hardly. It had been on his mind between fears of never seeing Stormwind (in the daylight) or his father (in a pleasant mood) again. As well as the ever-present terror of further ruining things with Saurfang. At least he had managed a whole twenty minutes free of the last one.

Fortunately for him, Sylvanas’ interests were aligned with his own, even if they were just as likely to throw his own life into chaos. “I have not,” he said. “Have you forgotten that it was Sylvanas who came to me? Who demanded my freedom from the regent lord? As I recall, _you_ were left to tend the horses, so perhaps you were simply unaware of the circumstances.”

“You truly are a sour creature when you’ve been denied.”

Anduin didn’t bother to hide a soft snort of laughter at that. If only he had the experience to say for sure whether Blightcaller was right. “You know, if you continue to insist on offering me advice, then I will have to ask that you call me Anduin.”

“Unacceptable.”

“As I am of a superior station, I don’t believe the choice is up to you. Isn’t that right, Nathanos?”

Blightcaller—Nathanos—growled something colorful and vulgar, before turning on his heel and stomping back down the stairs. “Try not to ruin all of my lady’s hard work, will you?” he called over his shoulder on the way.

Anduin let himself laugh at that. Sylvanas’ hard work. She wasn’t the one who would have to convince Genn Greymane.

Not that any of that would matter if Anduin managed to start a war before he could even try.

  
Saurfang didn’t emerge from his meeting with the king for some time. When Anduin finally heard his steel boots upon the steps, he stood up straight, whirling around to face his mate. He hoped Saurfang might be pleased to see him. He hoped that fire might have returned to his eyes. Instead, he appeared troubled.

Anduin was at his side the moment he passed the guards. “Warchief? Is everything alright?”

Saurfang shook his head. “Not here,” he said.

They made their way back to their chambers alone, without a guide this time. Anduin hardly needed one to get around, but he recognized that it was as much a matter of hospitality in Dazar’alor as it was in Stormwind. He wondered why Raal had remained behind.

Once they were inside and the door was closed, Saurfang sat heavily on the end of the bed. He was sitting right where Anduin had been earlier, his legs spread and his skin prickling in the heat, begging Saurfang to take him.

Anduin tore his thoughts away from the too-recent memory and sat down beside Saurfang. “Did something go wrong at the meeting?” he asked.

“Rastakhan wishes for us to prove ourselves. That we will honor our offer of friendship with the Zandalari.”

That could mean any number of things. It could mean territory concessions, steep tariffs. It could mean Anduin’s head on a pike—or his father’s. “What is it he asked?” Anduin said quietly.

Saurfang grimaced. “We are to put a stop to the raids on Zandalari supply caravans. In Vol’dun.”

“Vol’dun?” Anduin thought of the map of Zandalar that he had briefly perused in the central chamber. Vol’dun was a desert. An inhospitable wasteland. According to Princess Talanji, it was nearly as dangerous as Nazmir, the swamp that bordered Zuldazar to the northeast. Only the lack of blood trolls gave it any significant advantage in survivability. The best possible outcome was a successful mission and Nathanos reduced to a desiccated slab of dried leather. Lor’themar would fare well enough, as would Rokhan, but Anduin… “I’m afraid I may not be of much use to you there, Warchief. I can offer healing, but my combat skills are minimal. Much to my father’s regret. I would only slow you down.”

“I would not bring you if I had the choice,” Saurfang said.

“I take that to mean you don’t?”

He shook his head. “Rastakhan has insisted that you remain with the rest of us. Proof that you are truly dedicated to the Horde, as you claim.”

_We could simply invite him into our chambers tonight. Let him see my dedication to the Horde, _and _its warchief,_ Anduin thought. He blushed at himself; where had _that_ come from? Maybe Nathanos was right after all. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I suppose I am dressed appropriately, at least.” He gestured to the sarong.

“You will want to cover more of your body in the desert, Highness, not less.”

Anduin slouched. “Oh.” He really ought to have known that. “That really doesn’t bode well for my chances out there, does it,” he said.

Saurfang shook his head.

  
That night, they lay in bed beside one another. The circle of the bed itself was wide enough to accommodate them both, though Anduin worried that Saurfang still did not have as much room as he would have liked, given the size of his sleeping area in Grommash Hold. They were both awake, having sent word to Nathanos, Lor’themar, and Rokhan to be ready to depart for Vol’dun at first light. That was hours away yet, but neither Anduin nor Saurfang had managed a minute of sleep since climbing into bed.

“Warchief?” he asked, whispering to his mate in the darkness. “Could I ask you something?”

Saurfang exhaled long and slow. “Go ahead.”

“Would you—I understand we have to be awake and ready to depart first thing in the morning, but—” He hesitated. “As neither of us appears able to sleep, I thought perhaps we could… I thought we might pick up where we left off.” To make sure there were no further misunderstandings, he slid his palm up and across the wide, muscular plane of Saurfang’s chest. He felt a shudder beneath his touch, and it emboldened him. “Whatever you wish to do.”

He could almost hear the indecision working its way through the labyrinth of Saurfang’s mind. If he refused now, Anduin would know he had done something—perhaps said something—to cause offense. He desperately hoped that was not so.

His fingers traced meaningless patterns between the swell of Saurfang’s pecs, dipping into the shallow valley between and sliding down, down, until he encountered the laces of Saurfang’s pants. The ones that had so skillfully drawn his eye earlier that evening. The ones that had fought valiantly to restrain his truly impressive cock. He plucked at the end of one lace.

“Hmm,” Saurfang rumbled, heaving another great sigh, and something within him seemed to give. He relaxed against the bed, folding an arm behind his head to serve as a pillow. “And what is it _you_ would wish, Highness?” he asked.

Anduin’s mouth was suddenly too dry to form words. He shifted closer to buy some time before answering, molding himself to the open space along Saurfang’s side where his arm had been. With a roll of his hips, he pressed his own erection against Saurfang’s hip. “To touch you,” he whispered at last. “All of you. Could I?”

If he didn’t know better, Anduin might have thought Saurfang’s reaction to that was one of relief, rather than desire. He watched his silhouette nod in the darkness. “You may touch whatever you like,” he said. His voice was low thunder between them. “It would be best for you, beginning this way.”

Anduin didn’t need to be told twice. He shucked his own linen shorts and climbed atop Saurfang’s body to straddle his waist, ignoring the disgruntled sound that came from beneath him. He set a palm to Saurfang’s chest and gripped himself tight with the other. “I don’t know how long I will last like this,” he confessed, rocking his hips and grinding himself against Saurfang’s abdomen. “I’ve been in this state all evening.”

He registered the mild surprise on Saurfang’s face, visible only in the thin slice of moonlight barely illuminating the room. A broad, hot hand came up behind him, supporting his back, and Anduin leaned into it. “Did you want to touch me,” Saurfang asked, “or to rut against me like a beast?”

Anduin shuddered out a sigh. “Can’t I have both?” he muttered, leaning down to taste Saurfang’s skin. His teeth grazed old scar tissue, seeking the pebbled peak of a nipple to toy with. He heard Saurfang hiss.

“Careful, Prince Anduin.”

“Is that a request, or a warning?” Anduin asked. A quiet part of him wondered how he could feign such confidence when all he wanted to do was fall apart into a million small pieces. He prayed that Saurfang would mistake his trembling for desire.

Suddenly he was rolled, as he had been before, but this time Saurfang went with him. He found himself on his back, the dark shadow of a body once more towering above. Enormous hands gripped his legs below the knees, and without warning he was hauled up, almost over Saurfang’s shoulders. He felt a hot breath between his legs, washing over his cock and down his backside.

“Warchief!” he exclaimed, gasping. “What are you—”

“Taking what is already mine,” Saurfang growled, before plunging between Anduin’s legs. The points of his fangs grazed Anduin’s thighs, twin pinpricks of almost-pain, and his lips pressed to Anduin’s skin. A hot, wet tongue thrust between Anduin’s cheeks, tasting him. Anduin cursed and fought the instinct to go limp in Saurfang’s grasp, struggling to find support with his hands while he dangled above the bed.

His shoulder collided with something hard just as he managed to put a hand to the mattress to brace himself. At that very same moment, Saurfang’s tongue did something that made Anduin’s toes curl. “Warchief,” he breathed, “d—do that again, please!”

Saurfang huffed a laugh and obliged.

Between the hazy blur of his own thoughts, and the building pressure in his skull, Anduin considered that this was also not what he had envisioned for his evening. He was going to come like this, upside down, dangling from Saurfang’s arms with the warchief’s tongue in his ass. And he _wanted_ to. So, _so_ much. He whined, stifling little cries, biting back on pleas and words in Common and Orcish that had no place in that bed. Words that were all he could grasp in the overwhelming pleasure that assaulted him. At least once he managed to say, “Your cock, _please_,” rubbing against the bulge that pressed into his shoulder.

Saurfang must have heard him from between his thighs. He unwrapped an arm from around Anduin’s hips and reached down to wrench back the leather ties, freeing his cock from its confines. It lay hot and hard between Anduin’s shoulder blades. Without prompting, Saurfang hauled him higher, burying his face in Anduin’s ass and making him whimper helplessly. Anduin’s cock ached, precome leaking down his belly, but he managed to reach for the thick shaft behind him. He twisted enough to get one hand on it, but he desperately wished to use his lips, instead. Still, he would settle for whatever he could have. There would always be more, and Light, he wanted more.

“Please, please…” he whispered, repeating it over and over like a mantra, not knowing why, “please…”

Saurfang rumbled a growl against his skin, and Anduin came like that. He convulsed in Saurfang’s arms, heels kicking at the mass of his shoulders. It was as though Saurfang was fucking the orgasm out of him, encouraging every spurt with the press and drag of his huge tongue. Anduin let go of Saurfang’s cock and twisted his fists in the sheets. He felt his own come spatter across his throat. His vision blurred for just a moment, and the roar of his own blood filled his ears.

Slowly, the maddening press of need and sensation faded. Saurfang gently lowered Anduin back to the bed, leaving him limp and breathless, painted in his own spend. His cock still stood tall against his abdomen, and as he gazed upon Anduin’s debauched form it twitched and throbbed enough so that Anduin could see it move even in the dark.

“More,” Anduin breathed. Saurfang watched him in the dark, his chest and shoulders heaving. “Again.”

As before, he was obliged.

  
The sun rose on Dazar’alor the following morning to find Anduin in a superlative mood. He stretched and smiled at the light, greeting the day with a wonderful sort of fatigue that he could not bring himself to regret. Not with memories of the previous night still fresh in his mind. And although he had only managed a few hours’ sleep, he was nevertheless ready and eager to face the day.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Lor’themar greeted him. The elf had donned his elaborate red and gold armor, with no apparent thought for the heat they would be facing in Vol’dun. Perhaps it did not concern him. Perhaps he already had experience in such a climate.

Anduin tucked away that curiosity for another time. He had much more interesting matters to dwell on that morning. “Regent Lord,” he answered. “I trust you slept well?”

“Better than _some_,” Nathanos muttered behind them. Anduin turned to find the Forsaken securing a second quiver to the side of his mount. They had been furnished with raptors for the journey, courtesy of Wardruid Loti and her patron loa, Gonk. The raptors, beasts unlike any that Anduin had ever encountered before, would serve as both transportation and guide, taking the Horde party to their destination and bearing them back without need for additional Zandalari support. Hexlord Raal had initially suggested that they might fly by pterrordax, until Loti had pulled Anduin aside and explained the loa Pa’ku’s fondness for dropping all manner of creatures onto rocks, with or without provocation. And that her children shared that same predilection.

The decision had been rather simple after that.

“I was under the impression you required no sleep, Nathanos,” Anduin replied casually. That the use of his given name so obviously bothered the undead archer only made it that much more rewarding. He had come to be rather fond of Nathanos Blightcaller, but that affection had been hard-earned. Anduin intended to fully recoup the losses his dignity had suffered in the meantime.

Not to mention his determination that nothing would upset his good mood that morning. Not a trek into unknown and dangerous lands, nor the prospect of facing an unfamiliar enemy on their own terrain. Not even the certainty that Lor’themar, Nathanos, and likely Rokhan (who had thus far remained silent) knew _exactly_ what had occurred in the warchief’s bedchamber the night before. If the grin Anduin couldn’t seem to drop hadn’t given it away already, he was certain Saurfang’s good cheer, when he joined them, would confirm any suspicions the other three might have.

“Someone has to keep a watchful eye on you living and your precious beating hearts. You know,” Nathanos purred, leaning across the saddle to leer at Anduin, “when you inevitably die in the desert today, you might consider allowing my lady to raise you. I’m certain the warchief wouldn’t mind a cold—Warchief,” he sputtered, interrupting himself.

“As you require no food, Blightcaller, mind that I could order your mouth sewn shut,” Saurfang growled.

“Packed and ready to go,” Rokhan informed him. Anduin caught the shadowhunter’s quick salute from the corner of his eye as he secured his own saddle. The raptor under his hands shifted impatiently, no doubt eager to run. He thanked the beast and stroked its feathery mane.

“Water?” Saurfang asked.

“More den enough, I’m thinkin’. But the high priest said ya raptor know of an oasis if we should run out. She can lead the way.”

Anduin heard Saurfang’s satisfied hum. It set off the memory of that same sound thrumming against his skin, vibrating _through_ him. He could feel the blush creeping across his face even in the warm morning light.

He wondered if Saurfang would be so open in his feelings; if the others could see the echo of last night’s pleasure on _his_ face, as they undoubtedly could with Anduin. A part of him hoped they might—obeying some ancient need to lay claim to what was indisputably his. He turned to look, to catch his mate’s eye, and share the heat of those memories for just a moment. If he could hardly bear to be so close without reaching out to reaffirm that bond, he imagined Saurfang must already be aching.

But when he turned, Anduin found that it wasn’t lust etched upon Saurfang’s face. Nor was there any sign at all of remembered passion. The eyes that met his were not burning fiercely, but muted, almost dull. Just as they had been prior to Raal’s interruption the night before.

Saurfang looked miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I have a [new tumblr blog!](https://tinylionsed.tumblr.com/) Feel free to swing by if you are looking to follow me for updates. I'm still moving some things over, and eventually there will be a permanent link to my WIP list on the sidebar.
> 
> Also, don't forget that Lionfang Week is coming up. Expect the official announcement and dates within the next few weeks. We welcome all participants. Bring your fics, art, and whatever else you might like to share. As always, you can come by the [Lionfang discord server](https://discord.gg/bJ2JQSx) if you have any questions, or just to chat and hang out.


	16. (Not So) Fun in the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have officially passed 100,000 words!

_Curiosity._

Saurfang grimaced as his rear collided with the raptor’s saddle for what must have been the thousandth time. The beasts had lost none of their bounce upon reaching the sands of Vol’dun, and though they were only a few hours into their journey, Saurfang was already prepared to call the whole thing off. Surely his balls weren’t a fair price to ask for the use of Zandalar’s military might.

“Caravans been comin’ up this road,” Rokhan explained. “Supposed to, anyway. None made it as far as Zuldazar in months.”

“There is nothing for miles in any direction apart from sand and unfortunately-sized insects,” Lor’themar said disdainfully.

Saurfang was still lost in his thoughts of the night before, and barely heard their exchange. He was furious with himself for giving in to Anduin. For losing control, and allowing his desire to overtake his sense. _Again_. Or perhaps for the first time; he was no longer certain which failures to lay at his own feet, and which he should leave with Anduin. The prince had been incredible, _insatiable_, but ultimately he had made the limit of his own feelings very clear. Varian had been right after all, and Saurfang had damned himself because he could not keep his blasted cock from seeking what it wanted.

At least, he thought with some meager relief, he had not been so devoid of shame that he had allowed himself to take the prince. Though not for lack of trying on Anduin’s part.

“Warchief?” Lor’themar said.

Saurfang pulled his attention back to the task at hand. He took a look around to assess the terrain—what there was of it—and caught sight of Anduin. He and Blightcaller were lagging behind the others, bringing up the rear at a leisurely pace as they rode abreast. It appeared they were deep in conversation.

“Ey!” Rokhan called out, startling Saurfang. “You two got somethin’ better to do? Catch up, before ya small selves become food for de sand spiders.”

“I can think of several dozen _better things to do_, troll,” Blightcaller snapped. He and Anduin reached the rest of the group, and Anduin immediately found something very interesting about his raptor’s saddle.

Rokhan scoffed. “Can’t wait ‘til ya shrivel up and we can jus’ tie ya to de raptors like a blanket roll.”

“Give me the waterskin and shut up,” Blightcaller murmured.

“Well,” Lor’themar said, “if we keep making this much noise, we won’t have to worry about finding our quarry. They will undoubtedly find us.”

“Yes, because it is so very likely that a group of skilled desert bandits, who have been sacking Zandalari caravans and escaping undetected for months, will somehow miss the well-concealed spectacle of a bright pink human prince, a seven-foot-tall troll, an elf with hair half again his own height, and a _very large orc_.” Blightcaller spilled some of the water into his hand and rubbed it into the parts of his skin that were exposed to the sun. Saurfang considered warning him that he might simply cook if he kept basting himself, rather than shriveling up like dried meat.

“I hadn’t imagined that I would burn quite so easily,” Anduin said somewhat sadly. “Wouldn’t it be prudent to set up camp until the sun is a bit lower? If not for my sake, then for his.” He pointed to Blightcaller.

“Don’t use me as the scapegoat for your delicate skin,” Blightcaller grumbled.

“Nah,” Rokhan answered, “it’s gonna get mighty cold out here come sundown. We need to cover as much ground as possible if we hope to reach water before we run out.”

Anduin seemed distressed by the shadowhunter’s warning. Fortunately, Blightcaller was on hand to ease his fears. “Do not worry, Highness. Your burned skin will keep you feeling _quite_ warm come nightfall,” he chuckled.

Anduin simply rolled his eyes and steered his raptor closer to Saurfang’s. “Warchief, might I have a word with you in private?”

“Ain't no privacy out here,” Rokhan said. “‘Less you lookin’ to wander off and get lost in de wastes. But don’t take de warchief along if ya do.”

Saurfang frowned at him. He really didn’t want to speak to Anduin alone, but he knew better than to think the prince would abandon the notion simply because of a single setback. Anduin was unfailingly stubborn—as the previous evening and several incidents in the past had proven—and he would not be shaken once he had an idea in his head. Better to entertain him now, Saurfang decided.

“We can ride together at the rear,” he said. “You three go ahead.”

He caught a knowing look from Blightcaller, which he did not appreciate. With any luck, Rokhan’s prediction would come to pass, and the Forsaken would simply dry up until they could rehydrate him at a watering hole.

The others moved on as instructed, and Saurfang watched them go with a wistful, quiet sigh. He really, _really_ did not want to have the conversation that was coming.

“About last night…” Anduin began once he seemed confident the others were out of earshot.

Saurfang was truly tired of hearing those words from the prince. “Yes,” he said.

“Did you enjoy it?” Anduin asked. “The… What we did.”

Did—did he _enjoy_ it? He had come three times in two hours. Yes, he enjoyed it, he wanted to say. Instead, he only glanced at Anduin from the corner of his eye. It seemed safer than daring to look directly at him. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Anduin let out a breath. “That’s good,” he said, obviously relieved to hear it. “Well, in that case, was there something else you would have liked to do? Or did I—have I failed to do something—”

“You did not displease me,” Saurfang said. He had enough mercy in him to spare the prince the humiliation of trying to ask his question. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“It’s just that you seemed so unhappy this morning.”

Saurfang did look at him then; he knew that he had worn his disappointment on his skin like a piece of armor, and that Anduin had seen it. He should have guessed that the prince would correctly assume it had something to do with what had happened in their bed, even if he didn’t know the exact reason why. “It is only this trying diplomacy with the Zandalari, Highness,” he lied. “I am not fond of their continual mistrust, nor their insistence upon sending us out into the desert to clean up the empire’s messes. Nothing more.”

“Oh.” Anduin perked up. “That’s all? I thought… Well, to be honest, I thought you must have found me lacking in some way. I’m not very experienced—I’m not experienced at all, in fact—and I realize that I may have been a bit over-enthusiastic at times.”

His enthusiasm was _not_ the problem. Far from it. But Saurfang didn’t say that. He didn’t want to give Anduin the impression that _he_ was eager for more, though he very much was. Down that road lay only heartbreak. If he was not strong enough to set himself upon a different path, the least he could do was minimize the harm it would inevitably cause him. To that end, keeping Anduin at arm’s length—something he had failed to do when the prince had first arrived in Orgrimmar—seemed the most reasonable course of action.

They rode on, and for a time Saurfang thought that he had actually managed to satisfy Anduin’s concerns. But of course he should have known better.

“Last night, when I asked you to—”

He was interrupted by shouting up ahead. The others had crossed the crest of a dune, and were out of sight, but Saurfang could hear them. They were fighting something, or someone.

“Stay here!” he shouted at Anduin.

“But—”

“Stay!”

The last he saw of Anduin, before he charged up and over the dune atop his raptor, was the prince’s unhappy grimace.

Saurfang reached the other three just as Rokhan was being pulled from his mount. Two of the beasts were wounded, and the third was fighting… In fact, they were all fighting…

_Foxes?_

He came to a halt skidding across the sand, his weapon raised. The foxes, dozens of swift little creatures clothed in rags and bits of mismatched armor, had made quick work of the Horde party. They had Blightcaller trussed up like a game bird, and Rokhan was not far behind. Lor’themar lay unconscious in the sand beside them. How they had managed to successfully ambush such skilled fighters was a mystery, but Saurfang didn’t have time to give it much thought. He ran headlong into the fray, aiming deadly strikes at the small creatures. Countless enemies had fallen to his blade over a lifetime of battle, but somehow the nimble little foxes were too quick for his blows to land a kill. They parted like dry grass before the broad head of the axe could fall, swarming up and over him like locusts.

Before he knew it, he was on his knees. His vision blurred, and he swayed where he was, blinking at the ground as it rushed up to meet him. He thought he heard Anduin calling from higher up on the dune, and he tried to warn the prince to run. But all that came out was a gurgled, meaningless string of syllables, and then everything went black.

  
He woke to darkness, and a cool touch upon his brow. Saurfang bolted upright with a snarl, and the darkness gave way to blinding white light and a throbbing pain in his skull.

“That was meant to keep you cool,” Anduin said, pushing him back down.

Saurfang squinted against the harsh light, watching as the prince’s face slowly came into focus. He was on a rug of some sort, on the ground. Anduin sat next to him, and there was a canopy stretched out over their heads, blocking the sun. As he watched, Anduin dunked a cloth into a basin of water and folded it neatly atop Saurfang’s forehead.

“Where are we?” he asked. “What happened? The others—” He tried to sit up again, but a wave of dizziness came crashing down over him, and he slumped back onto the rug. “The others, did they survive?” he asked once he could remember how to speak.

“Rokhan and Nathanos are seeing to the raptors. Lor’themar is in that tent over there.” Anduin pointed to the left. “It seems he was double dosed.”

“Double…” Saurfang lifted his head just enough to take a look around; they were in a camp of some sort, surrounded by small tents that were tucked into every conceivable nook and cranny of a large, rocky outcropping. Cook fires burned nearby, wafting smoke and delicious scents through the dry air, and short, shaded canopies dotted the open area around them. Stacks of goods, weapons, and food were piled beside small wagons. _Very_ small wagons.

That was when he spotted the foxes. They were all around, going about their business in good cheer, heedless of the orc that lay in their midst or the human sitting at his side.

Anduin kept a hand on his shoulder. “Before you jump up and try to kill them,” he said calmly, “and I have to spend another two hours nursing you through hallucinations and fever, please consider listening to what they have to say.”

“You made _friends_ with the enemy?” Saurfang asked incredulously. It was somehow not the least bit surprising. “Why?”

“It was that or end up like the rest of you. I thought someone might want to try thinking the situation through, rather than just charging in like a mad kodo.”

“I did not—”

“Here,” Anduin interrupted, cutting him off with a wet cloth over his face. “Your fever has broken, but you’re still sweating far too much.”

Saurfang frowned and lifted the cloth away from his face. Now that he stopped to think about it, he did feel warm. Far too warm even for the desert. He noticed that the pink burn had disappeared from Anduin's skin, and recalled the various uses of the Light. “Couldn’t you have simply healed me?” he asked.

Anduin shook his head. “It wouldn’t be wise to try. Not without knowing exactly what they used to poison you. The vulpera still don’t trust me enough to tell me.”

“Vulpera?”

“That’s what they call themselves. They’re intelligent.” Anduin sat back against one of the tent poles that held up the canopy. “They never had any intention of killing us, only to keep us away from their families. They knew we had come looking for them.”

“_These_ creatures are the raiders?”

“Yes. They were forced to steal to survive after a group of trolls forced them from their territory. Not Zandalari, from what I can tell. At least not any Zandalari under Rastakhan’s power. They need protection, healing, and food. The caravans provided two out of three of those, since most were carrying herbs bound for Zuldazar that can only be found here in Vol’dun.” He swept a hand through his hair, shaking out a bit of sand, and sighed. “If we’re clever about it, I believe we can solve their problem and King Rastakhan’s, as well as our own, in a single maneuver. _Without_ bloodshed.”

Saurfang lay back and let his eyes slide shut. He chuckled, but even that made his head throb. “In that case, it is fortunate that we have you with us on this mission. Clever solutions seem to be your speciality.”

Anduin smiled. “Finally, you appreciate my true gifts,” he said.

  
That evening, the leaders of the vulpera gathered under the canopy where Saurfang lay recuperating. He had been able to sit up by late afternoon, but his headache had refused to relent, and he had difficulty focusing for very long before the dizziness returned. Standing was out of the question. Fortunately, Rokhan and Blightcaller were fine, and Lor’themar seemed to be recovering quickly. They all sat together on Saurfang’s right, with Anduin in their midst. The vulpera sat on his left. Saurfang felt like a negotiating table, and about as useful.

Anduin had insisted on conducting the negotiations on his behalf, and Saurfang hadn’t been able to raise a suitable objection to stop him. None of the others had bothered to try. Saurfang knew that Blightcaller, for all his bluster and scorn, was fond of Anduin. And Sylvanas had befriended him, which meant the Forsaken champion would make no move to challenge the prince’s claim to speak on behalf of the Horde. There was some favor they wanted of him, something they felt only Anduin could do, and it put him firmly in the good graces of the Banshee Queen and her right hand.

Lor’themar kept silent on the matter, which had come as something of a shock. Saurfang had expected the elf would be the first to argue, but to his surprise the regent lord had kept silent. And Rokhan, following his warchief’s example, had simply gone along with whatever the prince was saying. Saurfang couldn’t help but wonder how much of their acceptance had come about during the mission into Stormwind, and subsequent journey to Zandalar.

“The Horde will need to establish a foothold in Zandalar,” Anduin said. He was speaking to Riki, a vulpera male with a spotted coat and quick blue eyes. Riki had come to introduce himself earlier in the day, shortly after Saurfang regained consciousness. He was attentive but shy, and seemed grateful that Saurfang had been brought down more or less to his eye level. His role among the vulpera seemed to be that of a mediator, or a representative, rather than a leader, and he repeatedly conferred with the others around him as they spoke.

“More enemies,” Riki said with a frown.

“Allies, I should hope,” Anduin replied. “King Rastakhan will allow the Horde the use of the port in Dazar’alor, but he would never permit us to establish a base so close to the capital. That much is almost certain.”

“And you wish to make use of our territory?”

Anduin nodded. “The ruins along the coast would be an excellent foundation for a new base, and we could provide protection for your people as well. The Horde will trade with you, supplement your stores of food and medicine, and in turn, you could assist our people as we chart the region and learn its dangers.”

Riki turned to the older vulpera who sat beside him, and they conferred in quick, hushed words. When he turned back, it was with a shrewd gaze. A look Saurfang knew all too well from his dealings with his own enemies. And some of his allies, for that matter. “If you leave, you will not return,” he said.

“I thought you might say that,” Anduin sighed. “We could leave one of our own with you as assurance. A gesture of good faith.” He indicated Blightcaller beside him.

“I think _not_,” Blightcaller objected.

Anduin shushed him. “Is that agreeable?”

The vulpera looked up at Blightcaller, whose eyes burned like hot coals above his disdainful sneer.

“We don’t want him,” Riki said.

Blightcaller made an indignant sound. “Well, now I’m just offended,” he complained under his breath.

“I’ll stay,” Rokhan spoke up. “It’ll give me a chance to scout the area, see what de Horde gonna be up against.”

Anduin turned back to Riki. “Satisfactory?”

“And the gray one.”

Blightcaller scoffed. “_Now_ they want me.”

“We have a deal,” Anduin said. “Give us time to return to Dazar’alor and speak with the king. It will take a few days for the troops who have come with Warchief Saurfang to gather supplies and reach you here. In the meantime, please make no further moves against the Zandalari or their caravans.”

Rokhan and Lor’themar seemed satisfied with the arrangement, but Blightcaller was incensed. “Warchief, please,” he said, looking to Saurfang.

“Take up your grievances with the prince,” Saurfang muttered, rubbing his forehead.

“You will survive a few days in the desert, Nathanos,” Anduin said. He remained seated while the others stood, watching the vulpera as they shuffled off back to their respective tents and bonfires. “Riki, if you have a moment?”

Riki cocked his head slightly. “Yes?”

“The poison you used on our people, could you tell me what was used to make it?”

“Why?”

“Well, I need to heal my mate,” Anduin said, indicating Saurfang. “He isn’t recovering as quickly as the others.”

Riki seemed surprised. “Your mate?” he asked.

“Yes. Will you show me what you used to create the poison?”

The vulpera eyed him curiously for a moment, and then he nodded. “I will bring it to you.” He spun on his toes, and then immediately turned back again. “He is very different from you,” he said. It had the air of a question, rather than a comment.

“I’m an orc,” Saurfang muttered. He felt Anduin’s hand on his arm, stroking him gently. Soothing him. “He is a human.”

Riki hummed, as though considering that information and deciding what to make of it. “I will return,” he said, and then he was bounding off into the darkness.

“I should have known that you would sell me off to the enemy at the first available opportunity,” Blightcaller complained to Anduin. There was far less malice in his words than Saurfang would have expected, especially given the circumstances. “I will hold you personally responsible if these little savages simply give up and eat us before your return.”

“Nonsense,” Anduin said. He was gazing down at Saurfang with a look so caring and gentle that it made something ache in Saurfang’s chest to see it. His attention never wavered, even as he said, “They would use you for kindling long before they ate you, Nathanos.”

Saurfang chuckled, and Anduin smiled at him. To Saurfang, it felt as though they were once again standing on the bridge in Dazar’alor, and those feelings they had both denied for so long were rushing to the surface, coming out in a moment of unguarded emotion. The sheer adoration in Anduin’s eyes was breathtaking, and Saurfang wanted so much for it to be something more than what he knew it to be.

Blightcaller made a disgusted sound. “I tire of the living,” he muttered as he stomped off in the direction of the raptors.

  
After the meeting, and after Anduin was finally able to fully heal him, another vulpera guided Saurfang to a tent that had been provided for his use. He was told it would comfortably accommodate him for the night. The previous occupants had been given space by another group of vulpera, and they were all happy to do so, apparently. Perhaps they were hoping that it might further improve their own conditions if and when the Horde made good on Anduin’s deal.

He had not done more than struggle out of his battle harness when Anduin pushed aside the flap and entered the tent behind him. Saurfang spared him a glance over his shoulder. “I can manage this on my own, Your Highness,” he said.

Anduin kicked off his boots and set them against the tent wall. “Well,” he said as he lifted the shirt from his head, “I don’t doubt that, although I could help if you would prefer. But I really only came in here to sleep.”

Saurfang twisted to look back at him. “Sleep?” he asked, even as he realized what must have happened. Anduin had told Riki that he and Saurfang were mates. The vulpera assumed the two would therefore wish to bed down together. That explained the effort to provide so much space, at least.

“It is rather late, especially given the day we’ve had. Don’t you agree?” Anduin stood and peeled off his pants, and Saurfang struggled to keep his eyes aimed north. “You can look, you know,” Anduin said quietly.

“I did not… wish to be rude.”

“It seems a bit silly to worry about propriety, doesn't it?” Anduin came and stood before him, naked but for his underclothes. Although Saurfang was kneeling, they were nearly the same height. Anduin slipped his hands beneath the rough weave of Saurfang’s tabard and began tugging it up and over his shoulders, exposing the leather top underneath. “Given what we’ve done together, I mean.”

Saurfang grunted in agreement, allowing himself to be undressed. “I suppose you are right.”

“But…” The hands on his chest fell away, and Anduin turned around to pull the tie from his hair and drop it across his other clothes. “It _is_ late, and you aren’t well.”

Despite his resolve to keep his distance from the prince in any way possible, even if he could not do so physically, Saurfang found himself disappointed by Anduin’s apparent lack of interest. He was certain the prince did not think him infirm, but perhaps nursing him through his recovery earlier had somewhat lessened his regard? He kept quiet as he waited for Anduin to bed down on one side of the tent, less than an arm’s length from where Saurfang had been sitting. It left plenty of room for a grown orc to lie comfortably beside him. When it seemed Anduin had drifted off, Saurfang reached up and doused the lantern that hung from the top of the tent, plunging them both into darkness.

Outside, the camp had gone silent. The only sounds were the cries of insects and the far-off baying of creatures better left to the night. Saurfang stretched out on the floor of the tent, where the sand beneath him formed a natural divot to accommodate his body, and tucked the ridiculously small pillow beneath his head. Anduin had made use of his own blanket roll, and Saurfang briefly regretted not doing the same.

He had only just closed his eyes when he heard Anduin stir beside him. The prince was shifting, trying to make himself comfortable. Saurfang was reminded of their night in Ironforge; of the heat that had driven the prince to strip himself naked and crawl back into the bed wearing nothing but the sweat upon his skin. His blood pounded through his veins as he thought of what he might have done if he had known. What he _had_ done with Anduin, less than twenty-four hours earlier. What he would like to do again.

“If you would like to…” he began, and the uncertainty he could hear in his own voice shamed him. “We could do more.”

Anduin rolled over in the darkness, and Saurfang heard him draw in a breath. “Really?” he asked.

Saurfang shut his eyes. Damn him, he had no business doing this to himself. To Anduin. He wanted more than the prince was willing to give, and he was selfishly taking whatever he could have. It would only end in heartache.

Regardless, he found himself saying, “Yes.”

The body beside his shuffled about in the dark, and then he felt Anduin drop down astride one of his thighs. Just as he had done the night before. In the darkness, Saurfang could not see the pale expanse of skin, slightly reddened by the sun, that arched over him. But he could feel it. He could feel Anduin breathing atop him, and the heat of his body in the cool desert air.

Saurfang felt his will to resist give way like a dam shattering under its own weight. He put his hands on Anduin’s hips and pulled him up to straddle his cock, instead of his thigh. Anduin pushed down on it and breathed out a quiet groan.

“We will have to keep our voices down,” Anduin said in a breathy whisper. “With nothing more than tent walls between us.”

“Wouldn’t you rather the others knew?” Saurfang chuckled. “You didn’t seem to mind very much before.” Anduin had been… loud, the previous evening. Saurfang was certain most of the pyramid had heard him. Several offhand comments from Blightcaller seemed to indicate that was true.

“I’m only being considerate.”

Saurfang hummed, running his hands up and down Anduin’s flanks, and enjoying the way he shivered and his skin broke out into goosebumps. “My answer is still no,” he said. Anduin had not asked, but the question hung in the air between them regardless.

Anduin made a pouty sound. “Even now?”

“Especially now. I have nothing to make you slick. And I do not trust the vulpera and their strange ointments. I told you before, you should begin slowly.”

“What is slowly?” Anduin asked. “Is it this?” He leaned down across Saurfang’s chest and wrapped his lips around a nipple, flicking it with his tongue and scraping the pebbled flesh with his teeth. He did that for several minutes, driving Saurfang half out of his mind with pleasure. It was good, it was _very_ good, but it wouldn’t help with what Anduin desired. What Saurfang knew he would inevitably give him some day, despite all the promises made to himself.

He held up a hand before the prince’s face and said, “Suck.”

Anduin drew his mouth away from Saurfang’s nipple with a wistful sound, and turned his attention on the thick fingers before him. His tongue slid between each one, and his lips closed around the pads before he licked and kissed his way from palm to fingertip and back again. His hot breath warmed Saurfang’s wet palm, and his lips and chin set his nerves aflame as they brushed his skin. Anduin did everything he was asked and then some, and all the while Saurfang fought the instinct to flip him over and take everything he wanted.

By the time he was done, they were both panting in the darkness of the tent. Anduin slid down until his own cock rubbed along the length of Saurfang’s, and he gasped. “Oh,” he said, “that’s…”

“Do it again,” Saurfang instructed. He clenched his teeth as Anduin rocked against him a second time. Then, as he slid back up to start again, Saurfang reached back and pressed a slick finger between Anduin’s legs. Anduin bucked and yelped in surprise, and Saurfang couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You shouldn’t surprise me!” Anduin complained. He ground down against Saurfang’s cock as if to emphasize his point, or else to punish him. All it succeeded in doing was earning him the tip of one finger in his ass. He gasped, and then tried to push back on it. “More,” he whispered. “Oh, more, deeper.”

“You are ambitious,” Saurfang said. “Do you even know that you would like this?”

“I’ve—” Anduin swallowed, and Saurfang imagined that he had his eyes shut, his head thrown back. From the sound of his voice it seemed at least part of that was true. “I’ve done it to myself.”

The thought of that… Saurfang grunted, pushing in deeper. Anduin keened and wriggled atop him. “You pleasured yourself this way?”

He could not see the prince nod, but he felt the hair that brushed across his chest when Anduin fell forward again. “One of your fingers is—oh—it’s—”

“It is bigger than even two of your own,” Saurfang finished for him.

“Mhmm,” Anduin hummed. He started moving again, but only in little thrusts, rolling his hips just enough to drag his cock along Saurfang’s and pleasure himself with the friction. It was unbearably erotic, and the shallow huff of his breath between them only quickened when Saurfang pushed his finger all the way inside. “Oh, Light, _yes!_”

“Shh,” Saurfang warned. “Remember your own advice.”

“I suddenly—find I—care much less than before,” Anduin panted, pushing back onto his finger and then rutting against his cock.

“Perhaps I should find another way to keep you quiet.”

Anduin shuddered, and Saurfang felt his rhythm falter for just a second. It seemed he liked that idea very much.

It was a shame to take his hand from Anduin’s side, where he could feel his skin and the heat that burned beneath the surface. He raised his fingers to the prince’s face, tapping his lips gently. “Open,” he said.

Anduin did not hesitate. He grasped Saurfang’s wrist with both hands and swallowed down his middle finger, groaning around it as though he had tasted something exquisite. All the while he kept pushing back, fucking himself with Saurfang’s other hand, grinding against his cock.

“You are beautiful,” Saurfang said. He couldn’t see Anduin, but he was awed by what he could feel. How much he knew Anduin wanted him, and wanted whatever he could have of him. A part of him knew it was a mistake to be so forward, but as Anduin had said, it hardly seemed to matter much anymore.

Gasping, Anduin pulled his mouth from Saurfang’s finger and said, “So are you.”

For just a moment, long enough for Anduin to move the attentions of his tongue to the palm of his hand, Saurfang forgot to breathe. Then he pulled his other finger back and pushed it in harder, and Anduin cried out around the digit in his mouth. He bucked and shuddered, and Saurfang was truly amazed when he didn’t come. He had not expected the prince would last very long.

One of Anduin’s hands found its way to Saurfang’s cock, and he stroked as he thrust against him, sliding his palm through the puddle of precome that had pooled on Saurfang’s stomach and massaging the head with a practiced twist of his hand. It was incredible, and somewhere in the back of his mind, past the fog of arousal and absolute bliss, Saurfang couldn’t help but wonder just how _much_ practice Anduin had with himself.

“You said you touched yourself after you watched me,” he managed to growl. His hips twitched each time Anduin moved, each time his soft hand made another pass of his cockhead. “Describe it.”

Anduin withdrew his mouth from Saurfang’s fingers and groaned against his palm. He arched his back and twisted his hips just enough to bring his cock against Saurfang’s at an angle, sliding it back and forth like a bow string. It was… effective.

“I thought about touching you. I sucked on my own fingers, just like this,” Anduin said, taking one of Saurfang’s into his mouth again and sucking it from base to tip. A hot coil of need tightened in Saurfang’s gut, and his cock throbbed. “I rubbed myself on the bed.”

The bed—the same bed Saurfang had slept in while Anduin and the others were off on their mission to Stormwind. Anduin had thrust against it, humped it while he thought of touching Saurfang. It was more than he could bear to imagine.

With a growl, he pulled his finger from Anduin, ignoring the sudden cry of protest, and rolled him onto his back. “Spread your legs,” he husked, before licking a second finger and pressing both to Anduin’s hole.

“Oh!” Anduin gasped. “I—can I—?”

“If you want this,” Saurfang said, holding his cock and tapping it against Anduin’s inner thigh, “you will have to take these first.” He let go of himself and fell onto his free hand over Anduin. “Stay calm and breathe,” he instructed.

He though Anduin must have nodded, but it hardly mattered; as his fingers breached the ring of muscle, Anduin tensed and relaxed in turns, fighting to do as he had been told. He grasped Saurfang’s arms so tightly that his little fingers were likely to leave bruises. A truly impressive feat for one so small. “Yes—yes—ah—yes!” he keened, arching his back. He seemed unaware of trying to pull away from the intrusion, but Saurfang knew it was only a matter of instinct; it couldn’t be comfortable, being spread open by something so large. He wondered if Anduin might change his mind about wanting to be taken after they were through.

Anduin, of course, had no such concerns. “Your cock next,” he rasped, still squirming on the thick fingers that impaled him. “Tonight.”

Saurfang clenched his teeth. The allure of such a thought… “Stop tempting me,” he growled.

Anduin’s breathy little laugh was playful, but Saurfang knew he had meant every word. He wanted it, and he would not stop until he had what he desired.

And spirits help him, Saurfang wanted nothing more than to give it to him.

To stave off the inevitable, he took himself in hand and started stroking. Even as he thrust his fingers deeper into Anduin, fucking him with one hand, he hastened to finish himself off with the other.

“What are you doing?” Anduin asked. “Don’t come yet.”

“I have to.”

“But why?”

_Because otherwise, I will spread you open and bury myself so deep inside your beautiful body that you will struggle just to_ breathe_ through it,_ Saurfang thought. To Anduin, he said, “Because you are not ready.”

A familiar hand found its way to the circle of his fist, and then slid across the rough knuckles to drag a finger through the slick at the tip of his cock. The touch withdrew, and Saurfang heard the sound of Anduin sucking on his own finger. It nearly undid him on the spot. “You would make me slick enough, Warchief,” Anduin said. “And I am more than ready.” If they had been in the light, Saurfang was certain Anduin’s blue eyes would have been full of that same fierce determination he had whenever he set his mind to something, and wouldn’t be moved from it. “Let me decide what I want, and what I can handle.”

That was… Saurfang huffed and grunted, and tried to find a reason in him to deny Anduin what it was he asked for. But he knew, deep down, that it was no longer his choice. It never had been. Anduin was right, and what’s more, he had been denied that power time and again, in nearly every part of his life. Not only by Saurfang, but by his own father. The choices he had every right to make were denied him at every turn, save for their marriage. Now Saurfang sought to do it once more.

He had abandoned all thoughts of preserving his own heart, and given it over fully. Now, it seemed, he had one last thing to offer Anduin.

“Spread your legs wide, now,” he said as he withdrew his fingers.

Anduin stilled, and Saurfang heard his sharp intake of breath. “Wouldn’t it be easier if I were on my stomach?” he asked. “Or kneeling?”

“Would you prefer it that way?”

It was the first time Anduin had hesitated when it came to sex. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” he admitted. “What would feel better for you?”

Saurfang chuckled; it was charming, in a somewhat strange way. “Being inside of you will feel good for me, no matter what position _you_ are in,” he said. “But, for the sake of your comfort, you are right.” He patted Anduin’s hip. “Roll onto your belly.”

“Yes, Warchief,” Anduin said, and for some reason that spiked Saurfang’s arousal so thoroughly that he had to sit back and calm himself before he could proceed. He felt Anduin wiggle slightly where he was lying between his knees. “What next?”

Once he had himself under control again, Saurfang knelt over Anduin. He braced himself on one elbow, spreading his much larger body over the prince’s, and pushed his cock against Anduin’s hole. It prompted a needy sound, and another wiggle, this time of need and impatience. “Next,” Saurfang breathed against his neck, “I take what is mine.”

Anduin groaned, and Saurfang heard him panting as he buried his face in the carpeted tent floor. He lifted his hips slightly. “Please,” he said. “I can’t wait any longer. I’ve waited so long already. Please.”

Saurfang rubbed the slick head of his cock along the cleft of Anduin’s ass, spreading the precome that steadily leaked from the tip. “Please _what_,” he rumbled. So close, Anduin’s scent was overwhelming. It filled his senses, intoxicating and magnetic.

It took him a moment, but Anduin finally caught on. “Please, Warchief,” he whispered. “Take me. I’m yours in every way. Take your pleasure from me, please.”

“_Spirits_,” Saurfang muttered. He pushed in, and Anduin went still. “Calm. You must stay calm. Relax your body, or I won’t fit.”

“_Oh_,” Anduin groaned, as though the reminder of how very large Saurfang was had been enough to stoke his arousal. Perhaps it had. “I’m—I’m trying,” he huffed. “You’re so big. Light, you’re bigger than I expected.”

“You have seen it,” Saurfang reminded him. He had to say something, or the thought of what he was doing would drive him to an embarrassingly sudden climax, and the least of their worries would be his cock fitting inside Anduin’s slender body.

“It’s hard to really know-_oh_, more—” He cut himself off with a curse. Something Saurfang could only imagine he had picked up from spending too much time in the streets of Orgrimmar. “You were right,” he panted, “this is difficult.”

“I will stop.”

“No!” Anduin reached back and tried to hold him in place. “No, keep it in, please. I just need time.”

“There is much more to go.”

“Yes, Light, yes, I want that. I want all of it. Warchief, please… please…”

Saurfang brushed the very points of his fangs against the back of Anduin’s head. “Tell me what it is you want,” he whispered.

“P—push it in, please, all the way. Just do it—I’m—_aah!_”

There was no chance that Anduin’s shout had gone unnoticed in the camp. Saurfang stilled, both allowing Anduin time to adjust to him, and waiting for the possible appearance of concerned vulpera. He knew none of the other Horde would be foolish enough to interrupt; they were not unaware of what he and Anduin were likely up to, even before they could hear it.

Anduin had gone very still as well, and he lay there, breathing hard, clearly struggling to remain as calm and relaxed as possible. He shivered occasionally, and Saurfang tried to soothe him however he could. He nuzzled the back of Anduin’s head, whispering kind words, telling him how well he’d done. “I will not move until you’re ready,” he promised. Although it might kill him, if he wasn’t careful.

He felt Anduin’s nod. “Soon, I think,” Anduin said. His words were slurred slightly, as though the effort of speaking was simply too much for him at the moment. “Warchief, you’re… incredible.”

“I am pleased that my mate approves,” Saurfang answered. He savored the praise as he fought to ignore the itch in his spine that screamed at him to move. To thrust. To _take_. He felt sweat roll down his temple, and his thighs quivered.

“He approves,” Anduin said. “He approves greatly. You can move, I think.” He licked his lips, and Saurfang felt him shift a bit. “Yes. You can move now.”

The sudden confidence was not misplaced; Saurfang had felt him relaxing, his body fully easing to the intrusion. He pulled out almost to the tip, and then slowly slid back inside again. Anduin groaned, still muffled by the carpet, and Saurfang felt the sound in his veins, in his nerves, arousal burning hot in his groin as he thrust again.

“Do I feel good for you?” Anduin asked. Saurfang bit his lip to stifle a sound far too loud for the rest of the camp to ignore.

“You feel incredible, Your Highness,” he answered.

Anduin made a high-pitched sound, and Saurfang felt him shiver. “Tell me,” he begged.

Talking during sex was not something Saurfang had made a habit of doing in his lifetime. Not something he was very accustomed to, either. Sex, mating, was about the sensation, the pleasure. But Anduin wanted to hear him speak, and Saurfang was certain that nothing would bring him more pleasure in that moment than to give Anduin everything he wanted, and see and _feel_ the way he responded to it. “Your body is warm and tight,” he rumbled in Anduin’s ear. “I can feel how much you want me.”

“Light, I want you,” Anduin whispered. He had turned his head on the carpet, and Saurfang could just barely see the outline of his face. His mouth was slack and his blond hair hung over his eyes, sticking to his skin.

“The sight of you, the _scent_ of you, makes me harder than I have ever been,” Saurfang went on. “I have pleasured myself to thoughts of you. Imagined your mouth on me—” He paused to enjoy the way Anduin whined at that. “Imagined you spread out before me. Begging me.”

“The way I begged tonight.”

“The way you have begged me from the start, with your eyes and your body, and then finally with those words I could no longer deny.” He was going slow, keeping his pace deliberately lazy so that he would not risk bringing Anduin any harm, and it was maddening. He wanted nothing more than to abandon all notions of self control and pound away at the beautiful, open body beneath him until he had spent himself completely.

But it was Anduin’s first time, and Saurfang was determined it would be a memory the prince looked back upon fondly.

“I had no idea it would feel like this,” Anduin said. “It’s so… _much_.”

“You feel full, don’t you.”

“Full of _you_.”

Saurfang growled, and he settled his weight more fully atop Anduin’s body. He propped himself up on his forearms as he continued to roll his hips and fuck Anduin slowly. “I will fill you more than you ever imagined,” he promised. And he knew Anduin _had_ imagined it. Had probably made himself hard again and slipped fingers slick with his own come between his legs, pretending it was another man’s spend. Perhaps even Saurfang’s.

He heard Anduin whisper a faint, “_Please_,” and ground his cock deeper in reply. It earned him a long, low moan, and a wandering hand seeking his to clutch his fingers tight. Saurfang thrust a little harder, moved a little faster, and Anduin responded to it with more whining, more shuddering beneath him. He lifted his head from the carpet and craned his neck until he was nearly face to face with Saurfang. It was unexpected, and strange, but not unpleasant. Saurfang could feel his breath on his face, soft lips barely grazing his skin. Anduin kissed him, and Saurfang’s steady pace faltered for just a beat. He reached up to wrap a hand around the bottom of Anduin’s throat, just above his collar bone, and held him there. Held him up as he fucked him.

“Light,” Anduin groaned. “It feels so good.”

Saurfang only hummed and nuzzled his ear. He had used up all of the words that were left to him. There was only feeling now, and he could think of no better way to express his. How much he wanted Anduin; how much he admired and respected and _adored_ him; and how much he feared losing him some day, though he knew he had never truly been his, and never would be.

Then Anduin, who had so delighted in proving him wrong time and time again, who had flaunted his commands and dared him to object, and whose very presence drove Saurfang mad with both frustration and desire, upended his world one more time, and whispered, “_I love you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing and then they just wouldn't stop.


	17. It's Super Effective!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who helped me while I was wrestling with this chapter. You guys are the best. 💖

Anduin froze. It had the unfortunate side effect of making him tense up, and that was far from comfortable. Perhaps even worse, Saurfang went very still as well. Anduin could feel the orc’s powerful heartbeat hammering against his back.

“What did you say?” Saurfang asked very quietly. His voice was low and deep, and sounded very much like a warning.

Anduin scrambled for an excuse; he hadn’t meant to be so forward, so silly and sentimental. He had simply found himself swept up in the moment, and the confession had slipped from his lips. It had just felt so natural, he almost hadn’t realized he’d said it.

“Warchief, forgive me,” he said, licking his lips nervously, “please—”

“Did you mean it?”

“I…”

Saurfang sat up and pulled out, and Anduin felt the loss keenly. He bit his lip to keep from making some pathetic sound that would only worsen the situation.

Although they were in the dark, Anduin rolled over and faced his mate. It was the least his own dignity demanded of him. But then a light came on in the tent, and Anduin flinched away from it, covering his eyes. When he looked up again Saurfang was sitting back on his heels, his erection only half-flagged. That was something, Anduin supposed. Perhaps he could make up a convincing lie and somehow salvage the evening.

But even as he thought of that, he realized it wouldn’t work. Saurfang’s expression was stern, and Anduin knew that any attempt to avoid the truth would be the last he saw of Saurfang that night.

“I… do,” he said, looking away again. He couldn’t bear to meet Saurfang’s eyes and admit his humiliation at the same time.

The truth was, he had fallen in love with Saurfang. And that love, born of frustration and understanding and more than one shouting match, of comfort and caring and trust, had only grown since his return to Orgrimmar. That was why he had gone back—why Saurfang’s rejection had hurt him so much to begin with. It was why he had risked everything.

“If you find that offensive—”

He felt Saurfang’s large hand close around his wrist, and then he was being pulled against a broad, warm chest. The heartbeat within was pounding just as powerfully as before, but the body felt different, more relaxed. He only had a second to register that Saurfang wasn’t actually angry before he was enveloped by two massive arms, caught up in a kiss as sweet as their first, and just as gentle.

“Does this mean you feel the same way?” he whispered against Saurfang’s scarred lips. He traced the outline of his face, and drew his fingertips along the pierced fang that rested against his own cheek. “Do you… love me too?”

Saurfang watched him so intently that Anduin thought he might combust from the sheer force of it. He waited, his own heart practically beating its way out of his chest in anticipation and fear. He would accept whatever he was offered, and do so graciously, but he truly hoped the answer would not break his heart. It was a selfish need. Selfish to wish for more when he had been given so much already. But in that moment, in that tent, there was nothing else he wanted.

“Yes.”

Anduin looked up into Saurfang’s eyes, so full of emotion. No words seemed appropriate to encompass everything he felt then. Like his chest might simply burst into a million small pieces at any second if he tried.

“Sit back,” he said instead. The embrace had pulled him into Saurfang’s lap, and he remained there as the body beneath him shifted, and Saurfang did as he’d been asked. The thought of having Varok Saurfang to himself had always thrilled him, but now it warmed him. It filled him with indescribable happiness to know that Saurfang listened and _heard him_, not only because Anduin was his mate, but because Anduin was _his_. “Keep going.”

Saurfang nodded, and he kept his eyes on Anduin as he leaned back on one wide palm and reached to take himself in hand with the other. A moment of stroking was all it took to regain what little arousal he had lost. Anduin sat up on his knees and met him halfway, blowing out a breath as Saurfang pushed up into him again. Somehow, though Anduin knew it made no logical sense, he felt twice as big as before. But Anduin took him in slowly, sinking down until he could sit in his lap again. He could see Saurfang’s stomach clenching with every breath, and knew he was fighting not to thrust upward and seek some kind of friction.

One of Saurfang’s arms came around his back, and Anduin leaned into it. He lifted himself up just a bit, just enough to slide back down, and Saurfang groaned low in his throat.

“I like this much better,” Anduin said. “I enjoy seeing you.”

“Looking at you like this is… a privilege,” Saurfang answered with some difficulty. He hummed pleasantly as Anduin shifted up again. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Move,” Anduin said. He closed his eyes and shivered. “Just move.”

Saurfang obliged, and rolled his hips at the same time that he pulled Anduin up a bit, bringing them back together with a jolt and bouncing him in his lap. Anduin gasped and tried to reach for something to steady himself, but then Saurfang did it again, and he couldn’t seem to make his arms move at all anymore. They hung in the air, hands neither limp nor grasping anything, simply existing as the rest of him gave way to nothing but pleasure.

“Try not to come,” Saurfang said, grunting. “It will be better for you if you don’t.”

That seemed like a lot to ask. Anduin couldn’t really respond properly; he couldn’t do much besides moan and take every thrust, but he retained enough coherent thought to know that between the physical stimulation and the emotions currently overwhelming him, he wasn’t going to make it much longer.

Instead, he stammered, “I—I can try.”

“Do you want me to come inside you?” Saurfang asked.

Whatever bit of sense Anduin had left simply fled with that question. He whined as his mouth fell slack, and he thought he might have nodded. His eyelids felt heavy, and his body was tight with sensation. It was an incredible feeling.

He heard Saurfang chuckle. “Good,” he said. His fingers tightened on Anduin’s back. “No one will ever question who you belong to.”

“And what about you?” Anduin managed to ask. He opened his eyes and looked into the eyes of his mate. Eyes full of affection. “How will they know who you belong to?”

Saurfang pulled him in close, grinding Anduin on his cock and making them both gasp. “There was never any question,” he said.

“Oh, you—you have to finish,” Anduin warned. “If you want me to wait.”

“Close, are you?”

Anduin nodded, and it tossed his hair into his face. “So close,” he whispered. He shut his eyes again, trying to focus on nothing but his breathing, on the rhythmic in-out-in of every breath as Saurfang fucked him. It was difficult not to notice that the beat of every thrust was just as steady, just as grounding, and soon he found that he had begun to mistake the two. Every strong push from Saurfang chased the air from his lungs, and he breathed deeply with each answering pull. It wasn’t until they had been at it for several minutes that Anduin realized Saurfang was doing it on purpose; he was controlling the pace, keeping Anduin on the edge. When Anduin looked up, he found Saurfang grinning.

“You are cruel,” he said, doing a poor job of sounding stern.

“Calculated, Your Highness.”

Anduin placed his palms on Saurfang’s chest and rode him at that steady, _calculated_ pace. He kept his eyes on the face of his mate, watching all the ways his pleasure inscribed itself upon his features. Saurfang was a handsome man, Anduin had no misgivings about that, but he was also expressive, fierce, caring, and compassionate. He was devoted, utterly. And he was Anduin’s. “Are _you_ close?” Anduin asked after several minutes. “Do you want to come?”

His answer was a growl that worked its way up from the very bottom of Saurfang’s chest, and a slight nod. Saurfang’s movements were still tight, still very controlled, but they were slipping. “Soon,” he said.

Anduin curled his fingers and slowly scratched his way down the muscular swell of Saurfang’s chest, earning a hiss and a look of pure bliss. “Do it,” he whispered. “Come for me.”

“Prince Anduin…”

“Come inside me, Warchief. Claim me.”

Saurfang’s hips stuttered, and he made a choked sound in his throat as he came suddenly. Anduin could feel his cock pulsing, throbbing as he pumped his release into Anduin, who took it all with a hand on his own aching cock. He stroked himself in quick, practiced movements; the desperation had returned, the need that pushed at him from the base of his spine and made his skin feel like a raw nerve. He stayed that way, seated on Saurfang’s still-hard cock, stroking quickly while he watched Saurfang come down from his own climax.

“Your turn,” Saurfang panted. He was leaning back, simply watching as Anduin brought himself to orgasm. His attention seemed torn between Anduin’s face and his cock.

“I’m—” Anduin swallowed. He had to shut his eyes. “I’m going to come with you inside me,” he whispered, hearing the awe and fascination in his own voice. “Oh, _Light_…”

“You wanted this, hm?” Saurfang asked. He massaged Anduin’s back with his hand. “Was it something you imagined?”

Anduin nodded. Some of his hair stuck to his lips, and he blew it away from his face with a puff. “Warchief,” he whispered.

“Look at me.”

That was difficult, but Anduin made an effort; he cracked open one eye, looking down on Saurfang, who was still breathing hard, watching him with dark, hungry eyes. “Oh—!” he cried as he came all over his own fist and Saurfang’s stomach. It dripped down and puddled between them, warm and slick. Anduin watched it coat Saurfang’s green skin in mute fascination as he waited for the roar in his ears to subside.

“That’s… hn,” Anduin grunted, carefully unseating himself after a moment. “You weren’t exaggerating, it seems.”

Saurfang only raised a brow curiously.

Anduin waved a hand. “All of it,” he said, answering the unspoken question.

With some more difficulty, Anduin fell back upon the rug with a heavy sigh. His right arm lay draped across his chest, and his left had fallen somewhere beside him, useless for all that every muscle in his body felt wrung out and limp. He was covered in sweat. The air in the tent was thick and humid.

It was glorious. Every inch of him revealed in the bone-deep weariness of their lovemaking. If he thought either of them would be capable of it, he might have tried for more once he regained some strength.

Saurfang was still sitting there, leaning on one arm with his legs now crossed. His silver plaits were draped across his bare chest, and his green skin shimmered faintly in the lamplight from a thin sheen of sweat. He had a wild look in his eye; nothing Anduin might have expected after all they had done, and only _somewhat_ alarming.

“What?” Anduin asked.

Saurfang watched him for a moment more, and then he said, “You are incredible, Your Highness.”

Despite himself, Anduin knew he blushed. “Thank you,” he said, looking away shyly. “I think you know I feel the same about you.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” Saurfang answered. “Now.”

His back ached and his thighs and arms were shaking, but Anduin made himself sit up. He reached for Saurfang’s hand, pulling him in as he lowered himself back to the floor of the tent. “Lay beside me,” he said.

Saurfang nodded. Dropping onto his side next to Anduin, he propped himself up on one arm. The braids of his hair draped over Anduin’s open palm. “Now you have me,” he said.

“Mmm,” Anduin hummed. He turned onto his side and looked up at his mate. “Do you have any lingering doubts? Any concerns?” It was a question he thought he should have asked much sooner. Perhaps even as early as their first few weeks together. That was his mistake, and he made the decision in that moment that it would never happen again. Taking a chance, he asked, “Would you like me to tell you again that I love you?”

Saurfang nodded. “I would.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

Anduin smiled. “I love you.”

Saurfang tipped himself closer, pressing his forehead to Anduin’s. “Thank you.”

“That’s it?” Anduin whispered. “Really?”

“You didn’t ask me to say anything else.”

Anduin laughed and pushed him away. “Tell me that you love me,” he demanded.

Instead, Saurfang smirked and said, “Whelp.”

“Oh, look at that, you found a shorter way to say it.”

They laughed together, and then in time they fell into an easy silence, and Anduin let his eyes drift shut. He listened to the insects calling to the night outside, and the wind over the dunes. He listened to the sound of Saurfang’s breathing beside him.

He made a decision then. If everything he had gained—this love with Saurfang, this purpose, and this strange new family within the Horde—was to become the whole of his life, with nothing left of who and what he once was, then he would be content with it. A part of him would always mourn for his first and for a time only family, but he knew that if it came to that, the decision to turn away would not have been his own. It would have to be his father’s, because Anduin would never give up willingly, regardless of what Varian believed. He would try everything, fight until there were no options left. Even if it meant doing something potentially unforgivable.

His plan to make allies of the Zandalari had met with more success than he had ever dreamed, and Anduin was grateful that Saurfang had supported him through it. That was how he had once hoped his father would feel regarding his marriage into the Horde. Such naivete seemed so far behind him now. Things were different. They were all different.

“Warchief?” he asked quietly. It occurred to him how absurd it was that they both continued to refer to one another in such a way, but he also made no attempt to change it. Some day, perhaps. For the moment, it afforded them both a strange sort of intimacy; an unspoken arrangement, shared between them both, with no one else the wiser.

Saurfang kept his eyes closed, but Anduin knew he was still awake. “Hm?” he finally grunted.

“Do you think you might be willing to entertain one more of my clever schemes?”

Saurfang cracked open a single eye, peering at him through the muted lamplight. He watched Anduin for several moments, not speaking, not even seeming to breathe. Then he snorted softly, rolled onto his back, and said, “As if I could ever refuse you anything, Your Highness.”

* * *

Varian enjoyed the few minutes he had to himself between one pressing matter and the next, taking the time to catch up on some reading while he sat on his throne in Stormwind Keep. He wasn’t reading for pleasure, of course; not even a king had time for such luxury most days. It was a report from the envoy he had sent to Kul Tiras, informing him of their progress there, as well as the current state of negotiations with the Proudmoore Admiralty. Nothing terribly interesting from what he could tell. Katherine Proudmoore had been predictably unpleasant, but it seemed that Genn had been able to bring her around eventually. Not sending Jaina along with the rest of the envoy had likely played a part in their willingness to negotiate, though Jaina herself was far from pleased by the decision. He could only assume that the matter would rear its head at some future point. Frankly, as far as he was concerned, that was between Jaina and her mother, and not anything Varian wished to deal with himself. He had his own family squabbles to sort out.

With a sigh, he set the message aside and pinched the bridge of his nose. Just thinking about Anduin gave him a headache these days. He loved his son, and wished for nothing but his happiness, but Anduin was willful and naive, and too idealistic to see the Horde for what they were. Anduin was a young man off on a grand adventure, not thinking of the consequences of his actions. He believed that the Horde and the Alliance could come together in peace someday, regardless of their bloody past. It was admirable, but had no place in any reality Varian inhabited.

And Saurfang… Varian had agreed to his ridiculous proposal in part because he had hoped that Anduin would refuse, and in part because he was desperate to buy time. He knew the Horde was aware of their dealings with Kul Tiras, and what that would mean for the balance of power. He also knew that waning naval might would not stop the Horde from making a push for total conquest of Kalimdor; that would come down to an army poised on the doorstep of Teldrassil, which the Horde could muster in mere weeks. Although he knew and respected Varok Saurfang as a warrior, and even as a leader, Varian also knew the man to be a shrewd and capable tactician. He would see the advantages to occupying the night elf city, and Varian simply could not risk that. Sending Anduin in as a distraction had never been his first choice, but as his son had so readily and _enthusiastically_ agreed, it seemed there was little reason not to take advantage of his good fortune.

He simply hadn’t known what form the distraction would take. Not in his wildest dreams could he have predicted that Anduin would convince himself he belonged in the Horde, or that he had feelings for the green brute to whom he’d been wed. Varian had dealt with orcs for too much of his life to write them off as mere savages, Saurfang especially, but that didn’t mean that he wanted one as a—as a _son-in-law_. Light. What a mess they had made, the three of them. He wanted to lay the blame entirely at Saurfang’s feet, but Anduin had almost certainly been behind that little stunt in the Stockade. It was inconceivable that Saurfang would ever dare send his people into Stormwind on such a mission. He was no fool. But Anduin… 

Anduin had Saurfang wrapped around his finger, that much was clear. But he was in over his head. He simply didn’t understand the risks. Anduin was still a child, _his_ child, and Varian would do whatever was necessary to make sure that this brief fascination did not come to harm the entire course of his life.

Unfortunately, that had meant imparting a rather harsh lesson on the boy. The letter he had sent to Saurfang, although written in anger, would prove to be the best thing for all of them. Varian was sure of that. In time, he believed even Anduin would come to appreciate how difficult it had been to push him away in order to remind him of what it was he had turned his back on. This wasn’t simply about doing whatever he wanted; Anduin was abandoning his people, his future throne, and his family. There were consequences for that. And if Varian could make him understand that now, before it was too late, he would.

Khadgar had not been pleased, of course. He had come to the keep upon his return to the city, looking for Anduin. When Varian explained that his son had run off to Orgrimmar on his own, the archmage had seemed stricken by the news. Well, that was to be expected; the crown prince of Stormwind, heir to the throne and future leader of the Alliance, alone and bound for hostile territory? It terrified Varian to imagine what sort of trouble the boy might have gotten himself into. If not for the letter he had received from Sylvanas Windrunner, of all people, he might have sent out search parties in the hopes of bringing Anduin back. Upon learning he was already well on his way to Orgrimmar, the letter had almost written itself.

And then Khadgar had insisted on mediating a ‘friendly conversation’ between Varian and Saurfang, assuring him that the warchief would be able to address his concerns about the missing Zandalari princess. The single greatest advantage the Alliance had gained since before the Legion’s return. As though the archmage didn’t know exactly who was responsible for it.

He was just about to pick up the message from Kul Tiras and finish reading when a soldier came bursting through the throne room doors, taking only a second to drop into a perfunctory bow before addressing him. “Your Majesty,” she said, breathing hard enough to make even Varian uncomfortable. She must have run clear across the city. “There is a—a fleet, on the horizon.”

“Kul Tiras?” Things weren’t going _that_ well, surely? They had agreed to the treaty, but Varian was certain Katherine would hesitate to send her ships so soon.

The soldier shook her head. Her face was pale, and she had a look in her eyes that reminded Varian of a cornered cat. “Trolls,” she said.

“Trolls?!”

“Zandalari.”

Varian stood, taking Shalamayne in hand. “If they think we’re weak simply because we don’t have the ships they do—”

“Pardon, Your Majesty,” the guard interrupted. “I don’t think they’ve come to fight.”

That doused the fire roaring in Varian’s veins, and he let his shoulders drop with the weight of his sword. “What?”

“The lead ship is flying a white flag, my king.”

Varian sighed. “Only the lead ship?”

The soldier nodded.

So, not a surrender, which would have been as impossible to believe as it would be suspicious. A negotiation, then. Did this have something to do with the Horde? Had they somehow convinced the Zandalari that their princess was still in Stormwind? It was underhanded, and not the sort of move he might have expected of someone like Saurfang, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine that even his vaunted honor had its limits. It pained Varian to think that he had trusted such a man with Anduin’s safety. Naive, idealistic Anduin, who simply couldn’t fathom the sort of treachery and brutality the Horde were capable of, even after his brush with death at the hands of Garrosh Hellscream.

“I suppose that means they will expect to send an emissary into the city. Very well.” He sat down again, leaning Shalamayne against the golden lions that flanked the marble throne. “Tell the commander of the fleet that I will permit an audience. We will see what it is they have come to discuss. In the meantime, have the harbormaster order the defenses readied. I want the Zandalari to know that any attempt at treachery will be met with all the strength Stormwind can muster.”

“Right away, Your Majesty.”

The soldier left, and Varian smirked behind steepled fingers. Whatever the Zandalari—and possibly the Horde—were playing at, he would not be taken in by false overtures of friendship. If they had come seeking information regarding the whereabouts of their missing princess, well…

He could not not sic the Zandalari on the Horde while they held his son. Not without some guarantee of Anduin’s safety. It was possible the trolls had no idea where their princess was, or who had her, and the Alliance activity near Kul Tiras and Zandalar in recent months had piqued their interest, along with their suspicions. If that was the case, and if they proved amenable to an agreement, he might be able to wipe out the threat posed by the Horde and retrieve his son once and for all, without ever spilling a single drop of Alliance blood. Anduin would be furious, but he would see reason in time, or he would get over it.

After all, what other choice did he have?

* * *

Anduin ascended the steps to the keep aware of the dozens of eyes that watched him from behind plate helms and silk hoods. He walked with Saurfang at his side, and his head held high. They entered the long corridor that would take them directly to the throne room, and Anduin walked the familiar steps with only one thought weighing upon his mind: _This could be the last time I ever set foot in this keep._

If Anduin understood his father the way he was utterly certain his father did not know him, then this gambit would work. It would restore the peace, level the playing field between the Horde and the Alliance, and return Anduin’s family to him. It was a very big _if_.

The doors parted as they reached the throne room, and Anduin had the distinct pleasure of watching the smug look on his father’s face as it morphed into one of bald confusion and eventual fury.

“So, you ran to the Zandalari with your tail between your legs after all,” Varian said. His eyes were filled with hatred reserved solely for Saurfang.

Anduin looked at his mate, who somehow remained perfectly calm in the face of the accusation of cowardice. “Actually,” he said, drawing his father’s attention. “It was me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Varian looked to Saurfang again. “Is it not enough to have poisoned my own son against me? Now you’ve seen fit to include him in this scheme of yours? I warned you, Saurfang. I warned you not to involve him in your dealings with those animals.”

“I involved _myself_,” Anduin said. “And I will thank you to address me, not my mate.”

Varian made a disgusted sound. “You don’t belong here, Anduin. By rights only the warchief should have come, but I see that even he could not resist the temptation to gloat, regardless of the danger it might pose to you.” He bared his teeth at Saurfang. “You lied to me, and now you show up on my doorstep expecting to negotiate?”

Anduin stepped in front of Saurfang, who remained blessedly silent. He seemed content to allow Anduin to handle the matter on his own, for which Anduin was incredibly grateful. It seemed, despite all their fumbling and misunderstandings, they had managed to learn something about one another after all. “The warchief does not command the Zandalari fleet,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Is that so,” Varian sneered. “Then just who _does?_”

“I do.”

He saw the twitch at the corner of his father’s jaw; the slight widening of his eyes that quickly sank back into a carefully guarded glare, meant to hide his surprise. Once more, he had underestimated his own son.

“You’re surprised,” Anduin said.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t be. If you believe this stunt will convince me to turn a blind eye to what he’s done, or celebrate this farce you call a marriage…”

“I have no such expectations of you.” It was the truth; Anduin knew his father would never willingly give ground when it came to the Horde, not unless he had no other choice. History had proven it so. Nor was he likely to admit that Anduin had truly made this choice for himself, and understood the ramifications. Still, he had to try. “But you should know that this was my doing. From start to finish, this has been my plan. The princess, the Zandalari, all of it.”

“But why?” Varian stood, and Anduin could almost feel Saurfang tense behind him. He was prepared to step in if needed, but he was waiting. “Why would you betray your own people?”

“Because I gave my word, Father, and I intend to keep it. I would like nothing more than to remain your son, loyal to both the Alliance and the Horde, but in order for that to happen you will have to accept that I have made the choice to remain with my mate. That I know what I want, and I am capable of making that decision for myself.” He looked into his father’s eyes, willing his understanding, if only just the once. “If you wish to keep me, you will have to let me go.”

“You’re confused, Anduin. This isn’t what you want. Not really.”

“Why is it so difficult for you to accept that I know my own mind?”

“Because you are a child—” Varian tried to argue.

Anduin cut him off. “_No_, I am _not_. And you know it. You knew it when I made the choice to follow my own path, rather than trying to emulate you, and when I wished to study with Velen. You knew in Pandaria, and later in Orgrimmar. You have only conveniently forgotten it now, when I wish to make a life for myself in a way you do not deem acceptable, and I will not stand for it any longer. Nor will my mate.”

Once more, Varian turned his shrewd gaze on Saurfang. “Should I tell him,” he asked, “or would you prefer to do the honors?”

“Tell me what?” Anduin turned and looked up at Saurfang, who only grimaced in response to the question. “What are you talking about?” he asked his father.

“I’m sure this is all a grand adventure for you, Anduin,” Varian said. “I’m sure you even believe that trying to force my hand will work to keep this tenuous peace. But you should know that your _mate_ is not merely doing the right thing for the sake of it. He doesn’t care about peace. He cares about getting what he wants.”

“What does he mean?” Anduin asked Saurfang quietly.

“Your Highness…” Saurfang said.

Varian cut him off before he could say more. “He’s in love with you,” he announced. It was clear from his tone what he thought of that notion. “He desires you. And some day, when you tire of cleaning up after the Horde’s messes, when you have done all that you can to change their nature and finally accepted the futility of it, you will wish to leave, and return to where you belong. What do you think your mate will say to that? Do you think he will simply let you go?”

“I should hope not,” Anduin said. He felt a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder, and a gentle squeeze. A reminder of the words he and Saurfang had exchanged in the tent in Vol’dun, after what felt like an eternity of breathless silence.

“Oh, this is just wonderful,” Varian growled. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you feel the same about him?”

“Yes. I do.”

Varian made a disgusted sound. “All I’ve done, Anduin, all I have fought for, has been to preserve this world for our people. For you. And you repay me by choosing this orc? Over your own family?”

“I am choosing my mate, and the future prosperity of Azeroth. He _is_ my family, as much as you are, and both the Alliance and the Horde are my people. Now the choice is left to you to either respect that, and work with us to keep this peace.”

“Or what?” Varian asked snidely.

“Or go to war for your own stubborn pride.”

He heard Saurfang make a small, strangled sound; he hadn’t been expecting that. Probably because Anduin hadn’t warned him about it.

“War,” Varian repeated.

“Yes. And I assure you, the Zandalari would not hesitate. They do not forget easily.” Princess Talanji had been particularly anxious to take revenge upon the people who had held her captive. It had taken Anduin most of the journey back to Zandalar and a good portion of their stay in Dazar’alor to convince her that economic retribution would be far more satisfying. When he had explained how it would make his father seethe to witness the Zandalari trading openly with the Horde, providing them with supplies and leaving the Alliance to beg favors of their one-time enemies, she had actually cackled. It seemed his plan was a very Zandalari way of doing things, and even King Rastakhan had supported it. In return, all the Horde would have to do was clean up several problems in Vol’dun and Nazmir. Apparently there was months of work to be done in both regions. Anduin had volunteered Nathanos for that duty.

Varian took several steps toward his son. Saurfang’s hand squeezed Anduin’s shoulder again, but he only gave it a pat, reassuring his mate, and stepped away to meet his father.

“You realize that this is an act of treason against the crown,” Varian said. His voice was very calm, very quiet. “You could be imprisoned. Even if your Zandalari fleet attacked, even if your allies declared war on your behalf, I could take you and your _mate_ as my prisoners. How would you feel then? Would you still harbor this same misplaced, self-righteous arrogance you seem to have adopted from your savage friends? All this talk of—”

It was a moment Anduin had been anticipating since the banquet. One he was prepared, and yet totally _unprepared_, to face. His heart beat fast and his whole body felt electrified as he pulled back and arced a fist toward his father’s face, striking him soundly in the jaw and sending him stumbling backwards. Varian tripped at the steps and fell against the foot of the throne, holding his now-wounded jaw.

Anduin lifted his chin and said, “Those are _my people_ you are insulting, and you _will not_ do it again.”

* * *

Saurfang knew he was staring, and he was also distantly aware that his mouth was hanging open. Yet somewhere between the shock and confusion, and the small sliver of fear that this would be the catalyst that sparked a war, he felt so proud of Anduin that he had to fight to keep from sweeping him up in an embrace. That was _his mate_.

Anduin’s right arm hung at his side, and between his slender fingers Saurfang spied the faint, golden glow of healing. It faded as Anduin flexed his fingers and shook out his hand. “I will not hear you speak that way about the Horde,” he said quietly. “No more than I would tolerate such comments regarding the Alliance.”

Varian remained where he was, half-collapsed against the foot of his marble throne. His eyes burned with the sort of fury Saurfang had only ever seen in battle. For one fleeting moment, he considered stepping between Anduin and his father. But Anduin had made it clear he wished to face Varian alone, unaided, and Saurfang had agreed.

At the foot of the throne, Varian fumed. He rubbed his jaw and checked his teeth with his tongue. “My apologies,” he muttered hotly, wincing at the motion of his jaw. “I hadn’t realized you felt quite so _passionately_ about it.”

“You should know me well enough to expect that I would.” It was not said with rancor, but a weary sort of acceptance. As though Anduin was prepared to accept his father’s rage, regardless of the inevitable cost. He stepped forward and offered Varian a hand up. Varian looked at his open palm for a moment. He seemed torn between the indignity of his current position and the inevitability of accepting his son’s offer—not only his hand, but his ultimatum. Saurfang could see him struggling with it.

After several tense seconds, Varian reached up and took Anduin’s hand. Once he was on his feet he set his armor straight, throwing his long hair over his shoulder. From where they were standing he towered over his son, and Saurfang felt the tension between them like a physical presence in the wide, round throne room. Varian looked down on Anduin for what felt like an eternity, measuring something within him. Finally, he said, “It seems you’ve made your point.”

Anduin, who did not seem to have an ounce of subtle in him that Saurfang could tell, cocked his head back in surprise. “What?”

Something seemed to drain from Varian as he stood there, refusing to meet his own son’s eye. “Anduin, you just punched me in the face,” he sighed.

But Anduin still seemed too perplexed to know how to respond. He turned to look at Saurfang, and then swiveled back to his father.

Varian shook his head and frowned. He looked past Anduin to where Saurfang was standing. “Explain it to him, would you?” he growled.

Saurfang grunted in acknowledgment and said, “I will try.”

“Are you saying that all I had to do, all this time, was hit you?” Anduin asked incredulously. “Surely that isn’t all the proof you needed?”

“Anduin.” Varian hesitated, as though the words physically pained him. He rubbed his jaw once more and tried to force a smile. It was unconvincing. “You showed up at my doorstep with a _fleet_. Given your dealings with Tyrande, the Three Hammers, and your apparent good standing with Sylvanas Windrunner, I can only assume you’re telling the truth that it was your own doing. You came here today, knowing I might take you both as my prisoners, and you stood your ground in defense of what you believe to be right. You took a stand. And you did it alone, despite bringing that—your—bringing _him_ with you.” It seemed the most neutral term he could manage under the circumstances. He sighed. “It seems I have no other choice but to accept your terms, warchief’s mate. Especially if my only other option is to lose you forever, as it seems to be.”

“Because I hit you.”

Varian huffed a wry laugh and lightly touched his jaw again. “That did help.”

Anduin pressed his fingertips to his temples and rubbed them for several seconds. “This has given me a headache.” He looked up at Varian again. “I am so very angry with you.”

“I know you are, and I won’t lie and say that I’m comfortable with all you’ve done, or the lengths you’ve gone to, whether in the name of the Horde or this damned peace you value so much. But… I am willing to listen.” He snorted and shook his head. “I suppose I have to be.”

With a sigh, Anduin stepped past his father and sat down on the throne. He set his chin in his hand and looked up expectantly. “Since you’re feeling so charitable with your understanding, there is something else you should do first,” he said.

Varian looked at Saurfang, and then back to Anduin, who only arched an eyebrow at him. He turned around again and sighed dramatically. “I apologize for my behavior during dinner,” he said to Saurfang. It did not sound entirely sincere.

Anduin cleared his throat.

“And for attempting to use your… _feelings_… against you both.” He grimaced.

Saurfang didn’t bother to contain the very satisfied chuckle that bubbled up from his chest. “And I didn’t even have to punch you.” Though he would have liked to.

“I doubt it would have gone nearly as well,” Varian said flatly.

“No,” Saurfang agreed. “I doubt you would be standing right now if I had.”

  
That night, on Varian’s grudging invitation, they stayed in Stormwind. In Anduin’s old room, in fact. The bed was small, and creaked terribly every time Saurfang shifted, but it still held. It held when he sat upon the plush mattress, and later, as he rocked into Anduin, holding his hips until they bruised while he fucked him slowly from behind. Anduin begged so sweetly, his face pressed into the blankets. He held himself open while Saurfang tongued him until he wept, and then he climbed on top and rode him hard, his pale arms outstretched and fingers gripping the velvet curtains that surrounded his bed. When Saurfang came, it was with Anduin pushed down as far as he could go on his cock, so deep that he thought he could stay forever within his mate’s welcoming body. After that, he pinned Anduin to the bed and swallowed him down. He growled around his cock while Anduin pulled at his hair until his scalp burned. It was magnificent. Everything Saurfang could have asked for or wanted, and yet he knew they had barely scratched the surface together.

When they were finished, he lay beside Anduin, watching his slender chest rise and fall with every breath as he struggled to bring his heartbeat back to a slow and steady rhythm. The sight of him filled Saurfang with a powerful feeling of possession and desire, and no small amount of pride.

Anduin caught him staring. He rolled onto his side and threw an arm across Saurfang’s waist. “You might have to wait to go again, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said with a lopsided grin.

Saurfang arched a curious brow. “I wasn’t, but now I am.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“You,” Saurfang said. “Us. This… arrangement.” The bond between them, so much stronger now than he had ever imagined it might be.

“Worried?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“My father?”

Saurfang winced. He would have preferred not to think of Varian while wrapped in Anduin’s embrace. Although, given that they were in the man’s home, it seemed inevitable that thoughts of him would surface at some point. “You were brave today,” he said, purposely changing the subject. “And you have been brave since the moment you agreed to my proposal, when your only motivation was to assure peace between the Alliance and the Horde. Since that day, I have watched you work tirelessly to help those who needed you most. From that first injured goblin, to—”

“To you,” Anduin said quietly. He nestled in closer. “Isn’t that right?”

It was true. No one had needed Anduin’s help, his goodness, and his guidance more than Saurfang himself. “You are a more worthy mate than I deserve,” he muttered into the tangle of Anduin’s hair.

“I beg to differ,” Anduin said. “You took the same chance I did. All in the name of peace. You have trusted me, _and_ supported me, even when you didn’t want to—one or two stumbles notwithstanding, of course. I believe you have more than earned my affection.” He placed a light kiss on the side of Saurfang’s chest.

“What I have earned—what we have both earned—is a rest,” Saurfang said. He wrapped his arm around Anduin and hauled him even closer. “Some time away.” Surely the warchief of the Horde was entitled to a few days alone with his mate.

Anduin hummed thoughtfully. He shifted to lie fully atop Saurfang, with his hands tucked under his chin. The rise and fall of Saurfang’s chest brought him in and out of line of sight repeatedly, and to a somewhat comical effect.

“You’re thinking of something,” Saurfang said.

“Actually, it’s funny that you should mention time away.” Anduin looked him in the eye, and Saurfang could see trouble brewing in those bright blue depths. “You may recall that somewhat sensitive matter I discussed with Sylvanas.”

Saurfang frowned down at him, which apparently amused Anduin. He snorted a laugh and buried his face in Saurfang’s chest. “Is that why you lured me to your bed?” Saurfang asked his mate. They were, after all, in Anduin’s room. And it had been Anduin’s idea to retire there, rather than guest quarters Varian offered—which were on the opposite side of the keep from his own, Saurfang had noted.

Anduin flopped his head to the side and looked up at him lovingly. “That was entirely for my own nefarious purposes, you have my word.”

He believed that. “So, tell me what this _sensitive matter_ is that you discussed with Sylvanas. The matter I predict will thoroughly disrupt my plans to rest.”

“Well if you’re going to be so negative…”

Saurfang merely frowned at him.

“Alright, alright,” Anduin pouted. He twirled a finger around one of Saurfang’s nipples, as if in thought. Without looking up, he asked, “How would you feel about a trip to the Undercity?”

That didn’t seem at all unreasonable. He had been there before, after all. They both had. Saurfang didn’t answer right away, though. He knew better when it came to Anduin.

There was a pause, and then Anduin added, “With my father.”

Sighing heavily, Saurfang shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the pillow, already resigned to his fate.

Spirits help him, no man should ever have to endure so much for love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow me on [tumblr](https://tinylionsed.tumblr.com/), or come chat with us about the ship on [discord](https://discord.gg/bJ2JQSx).
> 
> One more chapter to go!


	18. Epilogue - Six Months Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end! What a ride, right? I tried to make it in under a year. I missed by six days. But I came close!
> 
> At this point I have lost track of all the people who helped me along the way. So many people who checked chapters, looked over scenes, helped me with ideas, or gave suggestions. I have far too many people to thank for their help, so please, if you even so much as listened to me ramble once, thank you. There were some significant bumps along the way writing this, one of which happened during a very bad time for me, and then the situation snowballed until it was entirely out of my control and I had no idea what to do. And then everything got bad for everyone literally everywhere. But we've come a long way since then. I hope you're all doing well, and keeping safe and healthy.

“You seem nervous, Warchief.”

Saurfang turned to regard Varian Wrynn from the corner of his eye. The king was holding out a mug of something that looked like ale.

“Come, have a drink,” he said.

The offer was tempting. Standing all morning in the Arathi sun had done nothing for his mood. But he could see Anduin down on the field below, his golden hair caught in the breeze as he moved between the others gathered in knots of conversation around him. At his side walked the familiar (and at the moment furry) figure of Genn Greymane. Sylvanas and her favored champion Nathanos Blightcaller were also there, currently engaged in a discussion with what appeared to be a woman passing out scarves.

“Warchief?”

Saurfang grunted and turned away from the field. There was a wooden table and two chairs atop the battlements with them, undoubtedly placed there on Varian’s command. He imagined the king had no more desire to stand and watch all day than he himself did.

He accepted the mug with a nod. “It isn’t poisoned, is it?”

“Not this time,” Varian said lightly. “We’ll see about the next one.” He took a sip of his own drink, eyeing Saurfang over the rim. His keen gaze was just as assessing as it had always been; even after six months of peaceful dealings, and more meetings than he could count, Saurfang had never seen Varian’s glare lose its edge. He supposed all that mattered was that he had finally shut his mouth on the matter of his son’s marriage.

Anduin’s direwolf _whuffed_ at his feet, and Saurfang leaned down to scratch behind her ears. She was less the beast of battle that she had been bred to one day become, and more a beloved family pet—due in no small part to Anduin’s constant pampering. He still hadn’t decided on a proper name for her, insisting on referring to her as his “little lady,” to Saurfang’s great dismay. It wasn’t a good name. He would not move from that opinion.

“One of these days that beast will warm up to me,” Varian said with far too much certainty. He tried to lean down and pet her, only to draw his hand back quickly when she snapped at him. “Light help me. Blasted dog.”

Saurfang sipped his ale to cover his smile. Beneath the table he gave the wolf another quick scratch.

“So, I think it’s about time you and I had a talk,” Varian said, sighing out the words. He removed his gauntlets and gloves and set them on the table. His sword had already been propped against the stone wall behind him. At least he didn’t seem as though he was planning to start a brawl.

“Is it,” Saurfang answered. He couldn’t help but notice that it was also the first time he and the king had been alone together since Anduin sailed his borrowed Zandalari fleet into Stormwind Harbor.

“I won’t bother warning you not to hurt my son. You know better, and I think by now you’ve realized that you have much more to fear from _him_ if you do.”

That was true, at least. Saurfang nodded.

“Here are the rules: you will not call me _father_, not even in jest.”

Saurfang arched a brow at him. He was just opening his mouth to point out that Varian had once attempted to be funny—or insulting—by calling him _son_, when Varian said, “Yes, I know. I won’t do that either.”

“Then I agree.”

“Good. I will see my son at least once a week.”

“I have no such control over Anduin, you know that,” Saurfang growled.

“I don’t believe you would attempt to keep him from Stormwind, Saurfang. I need you to convince him not to forget me. One father to another. Please.”

The emotion in his eyes and the unexpected vulnerability in his words caught Saurfang by surprise. He blinked several times, unsure of what to say, before finally settling on a tight nod.

Varian shifted in his seat, as though simply asking for help had been physically difficult for him. He cleared his throat and said, “Do not tell me about your personal life.”

“I haven’t yet.”

“Let me clarify,” Varian said, “do not let _him_ tell me about your personal life. He seems to take some kind of twisted joy in reminding me that you two have combined your living quarters and now share a bed.” He paused. “Do you really sleep on the floor?”

“It’s a bed.”

“Ah.”

“Without legs.”

Varian rolled his eyes. He took another sip of his ale and cast a look out over the field beyond. Saurfang followed his gaze, finding that Sylvanas and Greymane were close enough to speak face to face, with Anduin hovering close by, clearly agitated. Given the effort it had taken to convince the old wolf of the merit in this gathering, Saurfang wasn’t surprised by Anduin’s wariness. Blightcaller threw his head back and laughed, and Anduin promptly ushered him away.

“Seems like things are going well down there,” Varian remarked quietly. He didn’t sound entirely convinced, however.

“Surprising that you allowed Greymane to accompany the prince down to the field.”

“Yes, well.” Varian turned in his seat and leaned against the parapet. It was a strange sight, with the man still bedecked in most of his ornate armor. He tipped the mug against his lips and took another sip. “Anduin would not hear of allowing me down there.” He raised the mug to Saurfang. “I understand he said much the same to you.”

Saurfang grunted.

“I trust Sylvanas, to a point. But Anduin is still my son. I was only able to make him agree to Genn’s presence on the condition that having Genn there meant no other soldiers would be permitted on the field.”

“You fear the banshee will betray your trust?” He didn’t feel the need to point out that the gathering had been her idea. Hers and Anduin’s, anyway.

“Not exactly. But emotions are bound to run high, and things can go wrong in an instant. I’d like to know my son is safe. Do you disagree with my caution?”

“Only your choice of escort.”

Varian laughed. “Genn isn’t so bad once you get to know him. We were enemies once, you know. Well.” He tilted his head a bit. “Something like enemies.”

“The same could be said of you and I.”

There was no point in either of them being vague about it; they were hardly friends, and barely allies. An argument could be made for family, but Saurfang felt more comfortable ignoring that particular subject.

“Yes, it could,” Varian muttered into his mug. “And like Genn, I have entrusted you with my son’s safety. I would think you might appreciate that. He is your mate after all.”

Saurfang hummed in thought. He supposed Varian had a point, though he was loath to admit it. “Do you think the wolf will forgive Sylvanas for his son’s death?” He could not imagine ever doing so himself; despite his great respect for Sylvanas, and the unintended circumstances that had led to Liam Greymane’s demise, none among them knew better than Saurfang what that terrible pain felt like. It was not one that simply faded with time.

“I doubt it. But if that—” he pointed to the field before them, “—is any indication, he may yet surprise us.”

Saurfang looked, and found that Anduin had joined Blightcaller, leaving Sylvanas and Greymane by themselves. Neither seemed angry, and there was no imminent threat of hostility in their body language. That was unexpected.

“They may yet put us to shame.”

“Only if you and I never learn you put our differences behind us,” Varian noted. “Speaking of which.” He sat up and set his mug on the table. Saurfang couldn’t help but recall their first negotiation in Dalaran. The day he had asked for Anduin’s hand. “One last condition.”

_Condition for what?_ Saurfang couldn’t help but wonder. “Speak your mind,” he said.

“You will teach that dog to like me.” Varian pointed to where the back end of Anduin’s direwolf was visible beneath the table.

Saurfang chuckled into his mug. “I would sooner expect Greymane to become firm friends with the Banshee Queen before this wolf forgives you for distressing her master. But,” he added, smirking at Varian’s unhappy frown, “anything is possible, Your Majesty.”

Varian settled back, letting his frown fade away. “I suppose you’re correct.”

“I am living proof,” Saurfang said. He watched Anduin move amongst the throngs of living and undead in the field below, patting shoulders and accepting thanks.

Beside him, Varian snorted into his ale. “I see you’ve become as sentimental as my son, Warchief.”

Saurfang considered that. He thought of the small bed he and Anduin had shared since their first night in Stromgarde. How Anduin spent each night curled up against him, the direwolf on the floor at their feet. He thought of the great feeling of contentment that had come over him while he listened to Anduin breathe in his sleep. The memory made him smile. “Yes, I suppose I have,” he replied.  
  
  


* * *

“Stop antagonizing Genn,” Anduin growled under his breath. He was trying to keep his voice low, knowing it was likely Genn could hear their entire conversation regardless. Even halfway across the field, and with Sylvanas beside him discussing her plans for the first day of the gathering of her Forsaken and their living kin, it was likely his sensitive ears were able to catch everything.

“I am doing nothing of the sort,” Nathanos said with a sniff. “Your pet wolf is in dire need of discipline.”

“He isn’t a dog.”

  
Beneath his breath, Anduin heard Nathanos mutter, “_He certainly acts like one._”

He sighed. “At least he hasn’t tried to kill Sylvanas.”

“_Tried_ is, I believe, the operative word.”

“You must be relieved to see the progress they’ve made. Six months of work and they can stand to speak to one another without a chaperon.”

Nathanos hummed. He narrowed his eyes, watching Sylvanas across the field. “Indeed, much like your father and mate, I would say.”

It was the first time Anduin had thought of them that morning; he’d left Saurfang with his father, the two of them ensconced high upon the battlements of Stromgarde, where they couldn’t cause any trouble for anyone—except, perhaps, one another. No one had come rushing out onto the field to tell him that his mate was engaged in a brawl with the king, however, so he assumed things were going well.

“I think my father had an easier time accepting Saurfang than Genn will ever have with Sylvanas,” he answered. “But I am pleased regardless.”

“What a joyous day for you.”

“I will ignore your attempt at sarcasm in the name of friendship. Don’t tell me you’re still angry about Vol’dun?”

The mere mention of Zandalar’s desert made Nathanos grimace. “I am still finding sand in places that have no business being sandy,” he snarled. “That is _your_ fault.”

“But the Vulpera adore you.”

“Hardly a consolation!”

Anduin snickered. He’d read the reports from Vol’dun more times than he could remember. Riki had been very thorough in his descriptions of all the ways Nathanos was enjoying his time amongst their people, working to establish the Horde’s foothold and live up to the promises Anduin had made. They never ceased to amuse him. He had even shared his favorite parts with Saurfang. “In any case, you will have to get over it eventually.”

“We Forsaken are not known for our easy forgiveness.”

“You aren’t known for your friendliness, either,” Anduin pointed out, “yet here we are.” He gestured to the gathering before them. It was going well. Better than well, really. He only wished that he could trust his father to be among them, to see for himself how much good just one encounter had done for not only his people, but the Horde’s. Perhaps next time. As things were shaping up, he was almost certain the families who had reunited, and perhaps some of those who had declined his original offer, might be anxious for the chance at a second meeting.

“Speaking of friendly…” Nathanos said with a leer.

“Don’t start.”

“You and the warchief have become practically inseparable of late. Matters in the royal bedchamber fare well, I take it.”

Anduin turned away to hide his blush. “That isn’t any of your business.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, Highness. Ignoring that you made it the business of everyone in that camp the night you sold me off to the Vulpera—before you ask, no, I will not _‘let it go’_—you have flaunted your romance down the length of Kalimdor and back up again. Now you’ve dragged your saccharine nonsense to the Eastern Kingdoms for this little _holiday_. If I am not permitted to speak of it, then perhaps the two of you ought to find chambers with thicker walls.”

“The walls of Stromgarde are made of stone.”

“And _yet_,” Nathanos sneered.

“You could always request different chambers, Lord Blightcaller. Besides, you and Sylvanas both encouraged this. I can’t imagine why you’re choosing now to complain.”

Nathanos made an expansive gesture to the humans and undead before him. “We have what we wanted. Now I am free to lay my grievances at your feet.”

“As though anything ever stopped you before.”

“Point taken,” Nathanos chuckled.

They stood quietly for a moment, simply watching the activity on the field. When enough time had passed that Anduin thought a change of topic might be appropriate, he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been speaking with the warchief about appointing an ambassador to Stormwind.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even listened to my—”

“Absolutely not,” Nathanos hissed. “My place is at my lady’s side, not mincing about Stormwind Keep, currying favor with your father and his insufferable nobles. I _decline_ your offer.”

“Sylvanas thought it would help to establish a bond between the living and their Forsaken kin.”

Nathanos turned an incredulous glare on him. His red-orange eyes glowed furiously, even in the bright sun. “You lie. This is a bald manipulation, you impertinent whelp, and I will not stand for it!”

“Oh? I’m certain the warchief will be interested to learn that one of his subjects has accused his mate of such an underhanded, dishonorable act of deception. He will undoubtedly wish to answer that slight personally. My Orcish is a bit rough,” he lied, “but I believe the term is… _mak’gora?_” He said it slowly, feigning difficulty with the word. Nathanos made a disgusted face at him. “Yes, that should settle it neatly.”

“You will not convince me to humor this ridiculous notion of yours by leveraging veiled threats against my well being. Let Saurfang kill me if you must. It would be better than suffering the company of the living day after day.”

“I would never ask you to live in Stormwind, Nathanos. I doubt you would last a week without going completely mad. Or driving everyone else there.” Anduin drew a large, imaginary circle in the air before him. “You would have access to a portal to and from the Undercity.”

To Anduin’s great amusement, Nathanos only opened and closed his mouth several times, as though he wanted to object, but couldn’t think of anything to say. After several seconds he settled on, “I know nothing of diplomacy.”

“What luck, neither does my father,” Anduin said dryly.

Nathanos sighed, but then it slowly turned into a chuckle. “What a pair we shall make.”

It was late, and Anduin’s feet were sore from standing all day. He had hoped the grass might provide something of a cushion, but by the early afternoon it had begun to feel as though he was standing on solid stone. He winced and fell on his side onto the bed.

Saurfang _oofed_ and curled an arm around him, pulling him close. “My mate,” he rumbled, nuzzling Anduin’s neck.

Anduin hummed and rolled himself until he could climb up and straddle Saurfang’s waist. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose linen shorts that had bunched up around the tops of his thighs. Saurfang’s hands came up to stroke his skin, the tips of his fingers slowly teasing the crease of Anduin’s thigh and groin.

They had long since moved past the need for awkward questions and hesitant touches. Anduin knew what his mate wanted, and he knew that he would take it when he was ready.

With a happy sigh, he leaned back and grasped the backs of Saurfang’s knees, urging him to bring them up so that Anduin could lean back against them. Once he was settled comfortably, he reached down and began to stroke himself through the thin fabric. Beneath him, Saurfang’s cock stirred in interest.

After a few minutes of teasing himself, Anduin pulled the fabric down and wrapped his fingers around his own cock, already stiff and aching. Saurfang’s eyes watched him greedily, and the rise and fall of his chest was like the endless swell of the ocean between them, growing faster and deeper with each breath. Anduin swiped his thumb across the slit, through the precome gathering there. He slicked it along his length and felt Saurfang’s groan rumble through his thighs.

It seemed like so long ago that he had been a blushing virgin, desperate for any touch. Knowing now what sort of pleasure Saurfang had denied himself, Anduin couldn’t help but admire his will—and wonder at his tenacity. He wasn’t certain that he could wait so long himself. Not when faced with the sort of temptation Saurfang had been offered.

“Warchief,” Anduin sighed, letting his head fall back. He shut his eyes and flexed his thighs in time with his strokes, rocking just a bit and enjoying the thick, damp line of Saurfang’s cock underneath him, already leaking generously through the cloth. Anduin had explored every inch of it—and there were quite a few—caressed it, licked and sucked it, and felt it throb against his skin as Saurfang spent himself one great pulse after another. There was little mystery left, but Anduin thought that only made it better.

He lifted his head from his shoulders and gazed at Saurfang through the thick curtain of his eyelashes. “How do you want to have me tonight?” he breathed.

Saurfang didn’t answer. He reached out and grasped the linen shorts, easily tearing them from Anduin’s skin in one swift move. Anduin gasped as Saurfang grabbed his waist with one hand and lifted him just enough to position Anduin above the head of his cock. Anduin was only given a moment to ready before Saurfang was pushing in, sinking deep inside him with a long, low growl.

Anduin loved to be used like this; to let Saurfang lose control and ravish him, lost in his own pleasure. He relished the feeling of Saurfang’s slick cock spreading him open and filling him—and then _filling him_.

Broad hands held his waist, and Saurfang began thrusting from below, driving up into Anduin over and over, so fast it almost burned. Anduin wanted more. He wrapped his fingers around Saurfang’s and held them tight, letting him know he didn’t have to hold back with a desperate, pleading whine.

Saurfang roared and shouldered himself off the bed, tipping Anduin onto his back. Still holding Anduin’s thighs, he began pounding into him, snorting and grunting with every thrust. Anduin’s own cock slapped against his belly, and the sharp feeling of it combined with the endless drag and push of Saurfang inside him brought hot tears to prick the corners of his eyes. Saurfang wasn’t so much thrusting into him as he was pulling Anduin onto him, and it was incredible. He wanted to come so badly—_needed_ to come so badly, but Saurfang liked for him to wait. His favorite, Anduin had learned over time, was to watch Anduin come with his spend slowly pooling on the bed beneath them. Sometimes he used his fingers, pushing through the slick and bringing Anduin off that way.

Anduin loved to be full of him, in every way he could. “Give it to me,” he begged, shuddering out the words in a harsh whisper. “Please, Warchief. I need it. _Please_.” He would take every last bit, let Saurfang flip him over and start again if he wanted.

With another roar, Saurfang bent low over Anduin and covered his mouth with his own. Anduin drew in a breath through his nose and felt Saurfang’s tongue fill his mouth. It was so big that it reached his throat, and to Anduin’s shock he began to thrust with that, too. He fucked Anduin’s mouth with his tongue while he impaled him on his cock, and Anduin was already on the verge of losing control entirely when he felt a massive hand curl around his erection. That was it for him; he came so hard he nearly bent his back in two, his vision going dark and soft at the edges. By the time he floated back down from the rush of sensation and bliss, Saurfang was pulling out slowly, leaving him feeling wrung out and used. Not to mention as full as he ever could have wanted.

Anduin stroked a hand along his belly and smiled lazily at his mate. “That was… incredible,” he said.

Saurfang merely grinned, smug and entirely too satisfied with himself. He’d earned it, in Anduin’s opinion. He left the bed to retrieve a wet cloth and began to slowly and carefully clean Anduin’s body. His touch was so tender, so reverent, that it hardly seemed possible he was the same man who had just claimed Anduin so roughly. But he was. That contrast was part of what Anduin loved most about him.

“My warrior,” Anduin muttered, turning his leg aside for Saurfang to draw the cloth along his thigh.

Saurfang said nothing, but Anduin saw the slow smile that crept onto his face. He knew; they kept nothing from each other, no secrets, no words left unspoken. Not anymore.

When he was through, and he had given himself a quick treatment with the cloth as well, he lay down beside Anduin and pulled him close. “My mate,” he rumbled. His chin rested atop Anduin’s head, and Anduin couldn’t stop himself from pressing his face to the warm, scarred skin of Saurfang’s throat to breathe in his scent.

They fell asleep that way, tangled together, with Anduin all but buried in the protective shelter of Saurfang’s arms. As mates should be.

The next morning, Saurfang was up with the sun. The gathering, which was meant to last a full three days, would not begin until after the morning meal, but Anduin had learned _painfully_ early on that Saurfang was not one to waste a minute of the day.

He groaned and rolled over in the bed, taking the blankets with him. “_Go ’way,_” he mumbled from beneath the pillow.

“Such grace,” Saurfang answered. Anduin thought he might have actually listened, and left his poor mate to sleep in peace, but a moment later he was assaulted by a rush of frigid air as the blankets were cruelly ripped away from his body. “Food,” Saurfang commanded.

“No!” Anduin cried. He tried to cover himself with his arms, but it was no use. Arathi wasn’t cold, not at that time of year, but the stone around them was unforgiving and the morning air was merciless. Especially to one who had grown accustomed to sleeping next to an orc; Saurfang was a furnace, and Anduin took full advantage of that fact nightly.

“Have them bring me something,” he complained. He hated mornings.

“There are no servants here,” Saurfang reminded him. “You’re spoiled enough, anyway. Just like your lazy wolf.”

Anduin was beginning to grow accustomed to the temperature of the air. The fact did not comfort him. “I married the warchief of the Horde, that entitles me to preferential treatment.” He lifted his head and gave Saurfang a pathetic look. “Please, my warchief?”

It nearly worked. He saw Saurfang move as though he intended to step forward, but then he steeled himself and straightened his back. He’d seen through Anduin’s manipulation. He usually did. “Get up.”

“I’d rather starve.”

“I will go retrieve your father, in that case. He will wish to say his farewells.”

Anduin was up and out of the bed in an instant. “Don’t you dare!”

He was immediately hit in the face with a small pile of clothing. His shirt and trousers. “Get dressed.”

While he slipped into his clothes, Anduin grumbled about his cruel treatment and the heartless nature of orcs. Saurfang watched the whole time, arms crossed over his broad chest, a smirk on his face. He was insufferable.

“There,” Anduin said. He promptly fell back into the bed. “I can sleep warmly now.”

“You are a pain.”

“What a terrible thing to say to your mate. My father warned me not to marry you.”

Saurfang snorted. “You should have listened.”

Anduin feigned great offense, but it was short lived; Saurfang stared him down as he approached from the other side of the room, all but pinning Anduin to the bed with his gaze. It was the same look he had when he was hungry for more than food. It made Anduin’s heart race, and heated him far more effectively than any blanket or clothing could do. “W-Warchief?” he stammered, swallowing thickly.

Saurfang knelt down on the bed, slowly closing in on Anduin like a stalking predator. He placed his palms flat on the mattress and leaned in close, and Anduin couldn’t help a pitiful whimper. He felt the warmth of Saurfang’s breath on his neck, caressing his skin, the heat pouring off his body like a raging fire. The ghostly brush of fangs at his throat made him gasp, and he dared reach up to touch as the first rumble of Saurfang’s words reached his ears. “Hmm,” Saurfang hummed, and the sound made Anduin shiver, “I think… I will…”

“Yes?” Anduin whispered. His heart was hammering against his rib cage.

Suddenly a great weight came crashing down upon him, and Anduin wheezed. “Go back to sleep myself,” Saurfang finished. He rolled onto his side and took Anduin with him, clutching him close like a child’s favored toy. Anduin cursed and struggled in his grasp, and when he finally freed himself it was to yank the pillow out from under Saurfang’s head and attack him with it.

“You brute!”

Saurfang laughed, and when Anduin fell back on the bed beside him he was still grinning.

_Insufferable_.

“I will have to warn the Alliance that the Horde is exactly as ferocious, cruel, and devious as they have always believed.”

“I didn’t kill your father. That should count in my favor.”

“Yes, of course.” Anduin laughed into a stretch, reaching his arms high up over his head and pointing his toes to the foot of the bed. He caught Saurfang admiring him. “Who knows,” he said, nudging his mate with his elbow. “You may one day manage to eat an entire meal together in peace.”

Saurfang made a face. “I doubt it.”

“I would like if you came to the occasional dinner.” Although his tone was light, Anduin was very serious; he did not relish the prospect of keeping the two halves of his life separate if it could be helped. Matters between his father and his mate had gone better than expected in recent months, and it made him hopeful that there would come a day that he and Saurfang could visit Stormwind the way they ought to: as welcomed guests. As family.

“Could your father not come to Orgrimmar instead?”

Anduin didn’t answer. He only craned his neck to stare up at Saurfang, and hoped the look he was giving him would suffice.

“He has been there already,” Saurfang pointed out.

“Yes, I remember it fondly.” Anduin screwed up his face into his best impression of his father’s sneer. “_‘Let’s get this over with, Warchief,’_” he said in a gruff voice. “_‘Stop looking at him so much.’ ‘This is taking too long.’ ‘I’ll have more dust in my lungs than air soon enough.’_”

“I don’t recall him saying that.”

Anduin shrugged one shoulder. “It may have been on the ship. Regardless, you are the more reasonable one by far.”

“And that means that I should bend?” Saurfang asked, arching a brow at him.

“Yes,” Anduin said matter-of-factly. “That is exactly what it means.”

Saurfang made a _feh_ sound and hauled himself up out of the bed. Anduin rolled into the warm spot he had left. It would only stay warm for so long, and he was determined to enjoy it for as long as he could.

“Is it really so bad?” he asked, watching Saurfang, who had gone to the open window to look out over the courtyard below.

“No,” Saurfang confessed, “but it is irritating.”

“I agree.” He left the bed and crossed the room to join Saurfang at the window. After a moment of silence, watching his mate contemplate nothing in the distance, he slid closer along the wall and hopped up onto the ledge. Saurfang continued his quiet contemplation, but he placed a wary hand behind Anduin’s back.

“I won’t fall,” Anduin assured him.

“I would rather not take the risk.”

Anduin reached out and brushed a few errant strands of silver hair from his face. “One of your best qualities, you know. The way that you care.”

Saurfang frowned.

“I won’t tell anyone else, never fear,” Anduin promised.

“I would never hide my affection for you.”

Anduin suddenly remembered Nathanos’ comments the day before, and he laughed. “According to some, you needn’t worry; your feelings are quite clear.”

“Blightcaller should mind his own business,” Saurfang growled.

“Oh, don’t tell him that.” Anduin leaned to the side just enough to rest his cheek against the cool stone arch of the window. It put him more or less eye level with Saurfang. If Saurfang bent his head. And his back. “I’m terribly happy with you,” he said quietly. “I hope you know.”

Saurfang grunted and, with his wide palm still holding Anduin steady, shifted forward just enough to press his forehead to Anduin’s. “I know it.” He chuckled quietly, and rubbed small circles into Anduin’s back. “But why do I have the feeling you have something else you want from me?”

“Well, actually…” Anduin hesitated. This wasn’t something he had intended to bring up so soon. Certainly not in the middle of the gathering, with so many of the Horde and Alliance together in the keep with them.

Straightening up, Saurfang eyed him warily; he had learned not to assume Anduin’s motives were simple, no matter how innocent they might seem. “Go on.”

“When I said that I would like for you to come to dinner in Stormwind on occasion, I was hoping we might go…” He took a deep breath. “As a family.”

Saurfang watched him for a moment, a curious tilt to his head. Anduin found it rather charming. “Of course,” he said, “I had assumed as much. You are my mate.”

“No, I meant—I meant a _family_.” If he thought he was nervous before, Anduin realized then that he had never truly felt fear in his life before that moment. It wasn’t that he believed Saurfang would begin shouting, or even that he might become angry, but the fear of rejection… That his mate might simply dismiss the idea out of hand…

“Your Highness?”

“You took to the children in Ironforge so effortlessly—and they to you, of course,” Anduin added quickly. “After the war with the Legion, and all the years of strife before, there are so many just like them, Horde and Alliance alike. Children who need homes, who need someone to love them, and, well, there are other methods, of course, but I thought—”

“Anduin.”

“I know we haven’t been mated very long, and there must be reasons you wouldn’t wish to, good reasons, of course—I would understand if you said no, and—”

Saurfang silenced him with a kiss. No more than a soft press of his lips to Anduin’s. The hand he placed on the back of Anduin’s head was warm; his chest heaved with every breath, matching the heavy drumming of his pulse. Anduin took it all in and waited for his own heart to stop beating so wildly.

“I will deny you nothing,” Saurfang said quietly.

“That—” Anduin licked his lips. He looked up into Saurfang’s eyes, so close to his own. “That isn’t the same. I must know if you _want_ this. As much as I do.”

They were always honest with one another, now; since the day they had finally confessed their true feelings, neither had held anything back from the other. Anduin couldn’t help but wonder if this time would be the exception, however. He prayed that it would not.

Saurfang watched him for a long time, as though he was carefully considering his answer. Or, perhaps, how best to let Anduin down easy. After a time he slowly knelt beneath the window, and his great height put his chest against Anduin’s knees. Even kneeling he struck an intimidating figure. He placed his head in Anduin’s lap, drawing a deep breath when Anduin began to idly stroke his silver hair.

“I could ask for nothing more from you,” he said at last. “I could never have hoped to be so fortunate.” When he looked up, he was smiling. There was a touch of sadness in his eyes, but Anduin it wasn’t for him. “Yes, I want it.”

Anduin found that words were suddenly beyond his grasp, and he blinked to clear his eyes so that he could see his mate properly. “Varok,” he whispered, gently urging Saurfang up from the floor. He was immediately wrapped in warm, safe arms, and pulled from the window ledge. His feet never touched the ground. Saurfang simply held him there, supporting him. Anduin could hardly believe it was real. But it was; Saurfang was his. This life was theirs, and it would only get better with each passing day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who have stuck it out (or come back to read the whole thing now that it's finally done): thank you.


End file.
